


shelter

by ndnickerson



Category: Nancy Drew - Carolyn Keene
Genre: F/M, First Meetings, Grief/Mourning, Infertility, Loss, Married Couple, Miscarriage, Pregnancy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-07-24
Updated: 2014-12-13
Packaged: 2018-02-10 04:41:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 24,427
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2011293
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ndnickerson/pseuds/ndnickerson
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Edith and James are heartbroken when told they will never have a child, but fate has other plans.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Edith Chandler Nickerson parked her burgundy sedan outside the doctor's office, her stomach fluttering. Her hand lingered on the ignition key even after she had switched the engine off. On the other side of the tinted windshield, the hazy midsummer day was wavering with suffocating heat; it rippled the air above the hood of her car, above the pavement. The manicured beds flanking the stone entrance of the building before her boasted only a few flowers, and even those were wilting in the heat.

In the absence of the air conditioning, the heat breathed from the gray upholstery and through the windows, stifling-hot, glaring from the dash. A fine sheen of perspiration formed on Edith's cheeks and upper lip, at the nape of her neck and the line of her dark, wavy hair, cropped to her shoulders. She couldn't make herself move, though. Her blue eyes fixed on a dry, dead leaf that had fallen on the pale stone, rose foliage turned dark and skeletal by the descent of aphids.

A flutter of chubby white fingers, blurry in the field of her vision, floated where she stared. Edith blinked and glanced over at the young mother guiding her toddler toward the doctor's office. The baby's feet, shod in chunky pink and purple sneakers, were new and clumsy, but she managed to negotiate the curb after two attempts, much to her mother's smiling approval.

Edith didn't realize a tear had streaked down her cheek until she felt it drip from her jaw to her dress. Sniffling, she reached for her tan leather purse, the material butter-soft under her fingertips, and gathered her keys. She wore a forgiving elastic-waisted khaki skirt and a powder-blue button-down shirt that James had told her, just that morning, was almost the same pretty blue of her eyes.

The woman at the reception desk was named Angie, and Edith exchanged a polite smile with her when she signed in, her name a blue scrawl on the clipboard. She and Angie had sent each other Christmas cards; Edith had brought her a banana chocolate chip loaf the last time she had made one, and Angie had sent her a thank-you note for it, promising that if Edith ever decided to open a bakery, Angie would be first in line.

"Doing okay?" Angie asked. Her auburn hair was never caged for long by the tight plaits pinned to her scalp, and loose tendrils brushed her temples and curled at the nape of her neck, above the collar of her scrubs. Her dark eyes could go from tender to snapping in an instant.

Edith gave her a small smile, her throat still thick and prickling. She took a seat near the edge of the room, but the sounds of the toddler reached her. The little one babbled and her mother soothed, and Edith looked down at the golden band circling her left ring finger.

From the day Edith had held her first niece in her arms, at the age of fifteen, she had known she wanted to be a mother. She had marveled at the baby's chubby cheeks and miniature fingers, the swift way Gene had swept Julia into his arms and comforted her. On her wedding night, Edith had looked at Jim as she rested in the circle of his arms, the dark lashes against his cheek and his dark hair and strong jaw, and she had imagined a sweet dark-eyed baby in her arms on their first wedding anniversary with a thrill of both anticipation and nervousness.

They had plenty of time. She and Jim had plenty of time. Edith completed her accounting degree and took a job as bookkeeper for a small chain of local grocery stores, while Jim worked in Chicago with a commercial real estate firm. When they celebrated their first anniversary, their second, their third, Edith had remained slender, and the spare bedroom she had always thought would be their nursery had remained unoccupied, save for guests.

She dreamed of a little girl with bright blue eyes, smelling of sweet baby powder, with rosebud-pink lips. She dreamed of a little boy who could carry on her husband's name, who would play catch and ask for a puppy for his fifth birthday. She dreamed and dreamed, and after their fourth anniversary had passed and their family had not yet grown, Edith had asked Jim if they could see a doctor, to see if anything was wrong.

Her sisters, her brothers, had given her advice. _Just relax. Cherish the time you have with him because it's different once a baby is born. Take your temperature, don't drink so much coffee, eat a lot of fresh fruit. Make sure you're taking your vitamins. It will come when it comes; don't stress about it._

Then Dr. Anderson had put her on medication, and Edith had hoped and prayed that it would solve their problem. Instead, it had broken her heart.

Four miscarriages had followed, three of them in the last two years. With each pregnancy after the first loss, Edith had been slower to believe, slower to let herself imagine meeting their baby.

Edith looked down at her purse. Her last miscarriage had been six weeks earlier, and the pregnancy had progressed further than any other. She had imagined reaching the third trimester; she had begun to dream again, of a little boy with dark hair and dark eyes, who they would name after James's father. She had thought it would be different. She had wanted to believe it. She had looked at her projected delivery date, October 25, with hope instead of dread. When the bleeding had begun, for a long moment, she had wanted to close her eyes and never open them again.

She had never known or understood how cruel hope could be. The loss of it was somehow worse.

This trip to the doctor was the only time she had left the house since the event. She had sent James on the grocery trips, and she had cooked only to feed her husband; she wanted little and ate less. Her body had become a wasted tomb; the small garden she had cultivated since they had bought the modest house had languished in the heat, without her care.

She could coax seeds to riotous bloom, but she remained barren, her heart calcifying to a fist of ivory in her chest.

"Mrs. Nickerson?"

Edith brought her head up. She blinked until the glassiness left her eyes, rising, her smile perfunctory as she glanced at Angie.

How many more? How many more appointments like this? She was twenty-nine, soon to be thirty. Time would outrun her dream. James was already considering striking out on his own, establishing his own agency, and they would have the life they had always wanted. Save the only dream she had left, the dream that was draining her from the inside out.

James had mentioned adoption, but the process was time-consuming and expensive, and he would need all the money they could spare to finance his agency. She loved her husband with all her heart, fractured as it was, and after so much pain she had begun to wonder whether it was a sign. Maybe her dream would remain only that. Maybe, with time and her husband's support, she could put it behind her.

She had stopped feeling any hope at all when she walked through the doors to the office. She felt only resignation now, and contempt at herself, for letting herself believe this time.

Dr. Anderson asked Edith to join her in her office, after the physical exam and the usual questionnaire. She had returned to what passed for normal. Her body ached, and her spirits were low. She had not given James the children he wanted as much as she did. Instead, she had dashed his hopes as well as her own.

"Mrs. Nickerson. Edith." Dr. Anderson sat down behind her desk. Edith recognized the manila folder beneath the doctor's steepled fingers. "Again, I am so sorry for your loss."

Edith bowed her head. She hadn't told her siblings or her parents about her most recent miscarriage; she hadn't had the heart. The thought of their sympathy burned her. Hearing it with the sounds of nieces and nephews playing in the background made jealous bile rise in her throat. She didn't want to risk the resentment or the anger or the envy, or the ache that stabbed through her heart, all the way to her bones.

Dr. Anderson cleared her throat. "As we had discussed, I sent a sample to the lab for testing, so we could better determine the problem and develop a course of action. However, the results..." She flipped open the folder, glancing down at sheets bearing cold black data. "The results, coupled with the damage caused by your most recent miscarriage... Edith, I'm so sorry to tell you this. From what we can tell, you and your husband—your infertility, the loss of your pregnancies, was due to a biological incompatibility. The chance that you would carry a healthy baby to term is almost zero. In fact, with this data—that you nearly reached your third trimester is nothing short of a miracle.

"I know this has to be a shock, and I understand if you want to seek a second opinion."

Edith had been able to hold the tears back for a few minutes. When she looked up at the doctor, they were flowing down her cheeks, falling to darken the fabric of her blouse. She had not believed her heart could sink any lower; it seemed to have fallen well below the floor. "I'll never have a child," she whispered.

Dr. Anderson's face was a shade more pale beneath her makeup. "From what I can tell, it's almost impossible," she said. "Biologically. There are alternatives. Researchers are coming up with new methods, new medications all the time..."

"And one of those might help us?" Edith's voice was slow and measured, her face blank. She couldn't feel anything. She could feel everything.

Dr. Anderson took a breath, then shook her head. "I don't know how they could," she admitted. "Edith, I'm so sorry."

Edith took the time only to wipe her nose before she left the office. Her cheeks were swollen and tearstained. She had believed all her hope gone. Now she knew it was.

Angie stood as Edith passed through the reception area, and when she called her name, Edith turned. Angie reached out, and Edith felt her pat her hand. "Have faith," Angie said, her dark eyes full of sympathy. "It will work out. I know it will."

Edith didn't reply. She couldn't. She felt a part of herself dying, and she could do nothing about it, nothing at all. She bowed her head, measuring her steps out to her car. Outside the heat had given way to an eerie stillness. She could feel the promise of rain on her skin. Her hand was shaking when she pulled the key out of her purse to unlock the car, and one loud sob escaped her before she was able to close herself inside and cry.

That night she ate nothing; she had no appetite. Jim reheated a bowl of leftover spaghetti, and she only found the words to explain after he was finished.

She would never have her dream. The child they had both felt quicken and move inside her was the last they would ever have, the last they would ever lose. The ache was so terrible that she wanted to die. She had loved and wanted every one of her pregnancies to carry to term, especially the last one, so much.

Jim held her as she cried, his own voice almost stern with suppressed tears. "There are other ways," he said. "We can adopt a child."

Edith shook her head. "We don't have the money."

"I can put off the agency—"

Edith shook her head again.

"Love, this is more important."

She looked into his stricken face. "We would have to use every penny we have," she told him. "And more. And then what kind of life could we provide? No." She sniffled and swiped under her nose, her lower lip trembling. "It's what you want. Once you're established, in a year or two, we can talk about this again, but not right now. I can't..." She sniffled again. "I can't bear it..."

He pulled her into his arms, stroking her back, as they both lost themselves in their grief.

Over the next few months, as Edith's last due date approached, she devoted herself to supporting James at his effort. He found a real estate business looking for an experienced partner in a suburb of Chicago called Mapleton; that day, they viewed a house that had been on the market for only a few days, listed by the heirs of an estate who were willing to take a modest price for it. Edith quit her job working for the grocery stores after a brief search for a suitable replacement, and when she walked into the agency in Mapleton, no one there had seen her pregnant or knew what she had been through. She saw no pity on their faces, no hesitation in their manner. It was a relief.

She could be someone else here. James's new partner, Harold Logan, introduced Edith to his wife Carol, and Carol was thrilled to discover that Edith enjoyed gardening and entertaining—though, Edith didn't volunteer, she hadn't entertained in the past few years. She told Carol that her health had been poor of late, but she was looking forward to the change of scenery and pace. She felt better already.

In Mapleton there was no place for her grief, but she couldn't help clinging to it, as summer faded to fall, as the weather grew cool. She saw yellow school buses filled with boisterous children and miniature Halloween costumes in the stores and told herself that Jim's success could be a sign. When he did well, when they were able to set aside the money—though it was an almost unimaginable sum—they could talk about adoption again. Maybe she wouldn't carry a child, but they could have one to love as their own anyway. Maybe.

If they weren't too old to be considered suitable candidates, as she feared they would be.

Their new home had the space for both a nursery and a guest bedroom. She walked into the sunlit room on the upper story, close to the master suite, and couldn't bring herself to hope or to imagine it. She had been hurt and hurt and hurt until all of her felt like numb, cold scar tissue. She was happy with Jim. She would be happy with Jim for the rest of their lives, and she held onto that. But she had spent so much love on the babies they would never have, and it remained with them.

The due dates after her miscarriages always hurt her more than anything, and in late October, she felt her depression returning—and she did nothing to stop it. She had mourned each of her lost children, and her heart ached on every birthday she was never able to celebrate with them, at the sight of children who were the same ages as the ones she would have had. He had almost been whole; he had almost been hers. Despite what Dr. Anderson had said, she had felt her little boy, and she had wanted to believe that her love and her faith could keep him safe.

On October 23, she and Jim were having a celebration of sorts. Edith had been invited to join the Mapleton Garden Club, and she was planning what to take to the next meeting, debating making a banana chocolate chip loaf. They had signed the papers selling their first house a week earlier, and Jim had made his first major sale: a large, luxurious home at the edge of the next community, River Heights. They still had boxes to unpack, but Edith couldn't focus on that tonight. Jim had lain a fire in the stone hearth, and brought home a bottle of good wine, and she was warmed despite the wind that sighed and keened around the older house, echoing the growing ache in her heart.

"Love, since we have the new house, did you want to invite your family here for Thanksgiving?" Jim asked, bringing her refilled wine glass to her as she sat at the kitchen table. "Or are you feeling up to it?"

Edith pursed her lips, gazing at the wine glass. She still hadn't had the nerve to tell anyone else in her life about her miscarriage, and inviting her parents and siblings to see them would result in a painful conversation. Maybe it would be easier when they were all together, she thought. To announce to all of them that their advice and recommendations had been for nothing. Maybe they could start to get past it.

Edith knew she never would. But the terrible loss had been theirs to suffer, and she felt strangely jealous over it. She didn't want to share. She didn't want to force a smile and pretend it was okay, or hear sympathy from people who had no idea what her loss had been like.

"I'll think about it," she told Jim, smiling when he put his hand on her shoulder. "Maybe that would be best."

He leaned down and kissed her temple. "I love you, honey," he murmured. "I know things have been hard, and I'll do all I can to make it up to you."

She shook her head. "I'm proud of you," she told him. "You're going to do well here, I know it. There's nothing more you can give me, Jim."

He gave her a small, humorless smile. She felt guilty for the miscarriages, the loss—but so did he. If she had married someone else, maybe her babies would have lived. He had never said it, and neither had she, but she had sensed it in him.

With a sigh she stood and wrapped her arms around him. "I love you," she told him, gazing up into his eyes. "I love you no matter what, James Nickerson."

"And I love you," he told her, tilting his head to give her a soft kiss on the lips. "Edith Chandler Nickerson."

His lips were pressed to her cheek when both of them were startled by a clattering on the front porch. The wind's furious scream had grown louder, and Edith's first thought was that the rocking chair had been moved to the edge by the wind's force, and had tipped into the flower bed.

"Did you hear that?"

Edith nodded, and Jim released her to go to the door. He pulled it open, and beyond him she saw the muted gold of light bulbs behind curtained windows and the soft halo of porch lights, the only punctuation of the ink-black night. Jim took a step forward, and she heard the sound of his foot against something—and then he glanced down, and recoiled a little, his gaze still locked on the porch.

A large wicker basket had been placed on their front porch, and a white blanket was inside. Edith came to the door, gazing down at it too—and she saw the ruddy peach of newborn skin, a soft stocking cap, the miniature clenched fist at the end of a waving arm. At the first cry, tears rose in her eyes.

"James," she whispered, her voice no louder than a breath.

He reached down and lifted the basket, closing the front door behind him. Edith couldn't tear her gaze from the squirming bundle in the blanket. Her heart was trembling, all the way down to her fingertips. A heavy ivory envelope had been tucked into the foot of the basket.

But Edith didn't care what the note said. James placed the basket on the kitchen table and Edith pulled the blanket away from the small, almost alien face. The baby was a newborn; she couldn't tell if it was more than even a few hours old. When it released a loud series of bleating sobs, Edith gathered it up, keeping the blanket wrapped around it, and hugged it to her chest. "There there," she cooed, patting the tiny back. "Shh. There, there."

"Love, you know we can't keep it. Some unfortunate soul must have abandoned it..." James swallowed. "We should take it to the hospital, to the authorities..."

Edith's lips set in a stubborn line, and she rocked the baby as she sat down on the couch. Its cries had become softer. "Well, we certainly can't take him out in that," she retorted, gesturing with her shoulder at the door. "It's a cold, miserable night and the poor dear is already afraid. Besides, what's inside that envelope?"

As James's attention returned to the basket, Edith planted a gentle kiss against the baby's head. "Shhh, love," she whispered, feeling tears prick in her throat. For so long she had wanted to feel this: a small, warm, squirming bundle cuddled to her chest, a baby to love. She closed her eyes, a pair of tears slipping down her cheeks, and the baby sighed.

If she could, she would find a way to convince James that they should keep the baby. She knew that even before he slipped his thumb beneath the flap and opened it.

"It's addressed to us," he told her, turning it so she could see the face of the envelope. _James and Edith Nickerson - please read_

"What's inside?"

James opened the thick, folded sheet of papers, shuffling over to the couch, his gaze still on it. "'He was born this morning,'" James read to her, "'October 23rd, at 10:12. Six pounds, eight ounces. He is a very special boy, and he is yours. Please take care of him and love him.'"

Another wave of tears rose in Edith's eyes as she looked over at her husband. She didn't know what to say.

"Here," he said, and slipped his fingers into the envelope again. "It's a birth certificate. As far as I can tell..." He squinted at it. "It looks real."

Edith kissed the baby's head once more before reaching for the stiff half-sheet of paper. _Mother, Edith Chandler Nickerson. Father, James Coleman Nickerson. Place of Birth, Chicago Mercy Hospital._ Even the attending physician blank was filled in, but the signature was an unintelligible scrawl.

Then she laid the child in her lap, opening the blanket. He wore a plain, clean white miniature t-shirt and a diaper; his legs and arms were bare. She traced her fingertips along each flushed squirming arm and leg, and felt him respond. She didn't see anything wrong with him. And with every second that passed, she was more certain that she could not let him go.

"James," Edith whispered. "He's ours, and he has to be hungry. Please, please go to the store? Buy some formula and a bottle and diapers. We can talk about it in the morning, but he needs somewhere to sleep tonight."

James opened his mouth, but Edith lifted the baby and cuddled him to her chest again, wrapping the blanket around him to keep him warm, and James closed his mouth and stood, patting his pockets.

Then Edith glanced at the birth certificate again. "Oh my God," she whispered.

"What?"

Edith scooped it up and lifted it for James's inspection. "The name," she murmured. "Remember what we were going to call him? The one... who would have been born soon..."

"We talked about naming him after my dad," James replied, then looked at the name typed on the certificate. The next sound that came out of him was like a choked, muted cry.

_Baby, Edmund Coleman Nickerson_

"No," he murmured. "It... there's no way, sweetheart. This..."

The baby sighed against her chest, and Edith blinked another pair of tears down her cheeks. "He's ours," she whispered, and her voice was shaking. "He's our angel, Jim, and he's alive, and we have to keep him safe."

As soon as James had put on his coat and left for the store, Edith glanced up. "Thank you," she whispered. "Thank you for giving my baby back to me. Thank you. Oh, God, thank you."

Then she gazed down into the small face of her son and smiled at him through her tears. "You came back to me," she whispered, stroking his cheek. "My baby, my sweet baby. I love you, honey, and I'll do everything I can to keep you safe. I love you so much."

James returned thirty minutes later, and Edith had to laugh. He brought in three huge bags full of supplies; along with the formula, bottle, and diapers Edith had requested, he had bought wipes, a teething ring and a rattle, a pack of infant-sized onesies and a pack of t-shirts and a bib, a warm blanket and a burping cloth, pacifiers, baby shampoo, a sponge shaped like a duck, baby powder, and diaper cream. "I told the clerk that we were babysitting an infant," he explained, "and she recommended all this—and I picked up a few other things too. Do you think this is enough?"

Edith patted him on the back, smiling. "Here. Why don't you meet your son while I sort through some of this," she said, and handed him over. "Support his head..."

"I remember," James said softly, and cuddled the baby in his arms. "Oh, Edith, look at him... how can this be? How is this possible?"

She shook her head. The baby's eyes were closed, his lashes against his cheek, his chest rising and falling with his quiet breaths. "I don't know," she whispered. "But I can't give him up, Jim. I don't care how this happened. I'm just so glad we have him again."

James prepared the formula and made a bottle, testing it to make sure it was the right temperature, while Edith changed his diaper. He looked just like her nephews had when they were born; she didn't see anything at all that was wrong with him. It was only later, when the baby was drinking his bottle, that Edith realized. Her nephews, when they had just been born, had looked just like their baby, save one detail. They had a stub of umbilical cord at their belly buttons. Their baby didn't. He had a small belly button, no discoloration, no stump.

But he breathed; his heart beat beneath his warm skin. She knew he was alive, that he was real. Her heart told her he was theirs, even more vehemently than the note that had come with him.

They held him even as he slept, reluctant to put him down, and once he was full and burped and wearing a clean diaper, he seemed content. They talked about what to do, and James came up with the idea to tell people that he had been born prematurely, and that was why none of their new friends in Mapleton had seen her pregnant. Now that he was out of the hospital and doing well, they could introduce him as their baby. No one would be the wiser. Even their families would accept it.

They had no crib or bassinet, and once they prepared for bed, she laid the baby between them on his white blanket and smiled when he yawned. "Are you sure this will be okay?" James asked, pulling back the covers.

"We'll buy a bassinet or a crib tomorrow, but until then, I think this will be okay." Edith yawned as she climbed into bed. "I'm afraid to go to sleep. I'm afraid when I wake up, he'll be gone..."

James patted the baby's chest, watching him squirm a little in response as his rosebud mouth opened in another yawn, then patted his wife's hand. "I still can't believe it's true. And if this is a dream... I hope we can stay here for a while. Honey, I love you."

"I love you too."


	2. Chapter 2

On Halloween, Edith and James stayed home with the porch light off, watching their week-old son. Edith hadn't worked up the nerve to take him to her husband's workplace until that Thursday. Together, she and James had come up with a story to explain: Edith's health had been poor because she had delivered early, but now that their son had been released from the hospital, they were happy to show him to their new friends in Mapleton. Carol was beyond delighted for Edith and James, and when she learned that Edith was a new mother, she insisted on throwing a little new-baby shower for them. "No matter what you already have, you can never have enough diapers and wipes," Carol told Edith, her perfectly manicured hand on Edith's shoulder, nodding.

Edith had found the items she had bought for their first pregnancy in the still-packed boxes, and though the sight of them gave her a pang, she was delighted to have a baby to wash in the small plastic tub, to dress in the never-unpackaged onesies. Ned had been bathed that night and smelled like the no-tears baby shampoo they had used. His diaper was fresh and his orange onesie bore the image of a grinning pumpkin.

Edith hoped the photographs they had taken of him would turn out. In only a week, they had used almost a roll of film a day, commemorating each milestone and smile.

He had finished his bottle and burped, and Edith wrapped him in a blanket, rocking him. The rocking chair had belonged to Edith's mother, and Mrs. Chandler swore by it; when Edith had asked her sister Barbara for it a few days earlier, Barbara had been delighted to meet Ned, and she had been surprised that Edith hadn't invited her to the hospital for the birth.

Edith's story was that the labor had begun suddenly and prematurely, and she and James had been so flustered and upset that they hadn't thought to call anyone. Though she was terrified that the birth certificate they had found in Ned's basket wouldn't pass scrutiny, Edith knew she needed to take him in for an infant checkup and make sure he had his immunizations. She had promised to keep him safe, and she knew that any time he was in public and around other people who might be sick, _he_ might contract that illness, too.

When she touched his palm, Ned's fingers wrapped around hers and he held on tight, and Edith smiled, her eyes pricking with tears. He was so beautiful, and Edith doted on him. During that week, when he had begun to stir and cry for his feedings in the middle of the night, James and Edith had taken turns making his bottles and feeding him. He gazed at Edith when she sang to him, and at James when he told him stories.

And Edith felt all the love she had thought lost to her welling up again when she looked into his small, curious face, when he gripped her finger, when he made soft, cooing happy sounds, when his lashes fluttered down as he began to fall asleep. He was theirs, even if the story of his birth was a little different from the one they told everyone else.

Dusk had fallen and outside, groups of costumed children shepherded by a few adults marched up front steps and rang doorbells throughout the neighborhood, their buckets and bags held out for treats. Edith hadn't wanted the sound of the doorbell to startle their son, so their porch light was off. "Next year," she murmured to him, gazing into his curious eyes, "we'll take you trick or treating, maybe just for a little while. I don't want you to get scared when you see monster costumes. I think you'd make a handsome cowboy."

James smiled. "You think he'd make a handsome anything."

"He would," Edith replied, still smiling at their son.

She took him to the doctor for his checkup the next week, saying that she and her husband had been busy with the move, holding her breath when the receptionist asked about the details of her son's birth, but Edith copied everything down from the birth certificate and none of it was questioned. The doctor did ask about the umbilical cord stump, but her only comment was that it had healed nicely. The doctor was more than pleased with all his test results, and told Edith, a smile on her face, that her son was healthy and progressing very well, and they scheduled a next checkup. Then it was over. No tears, other than the few Ned had shed when receiving his first vaccines, or heartbreaking news; no worried look on the doctor's face and a prediction of more pain and loss. Nothing was wrong with the son they had been given. He was fine.

Edith couldn't remember the last time she had gone to the doctor and walked out feeling anything other than trepidation and anxiety. She and James scrutinized every news broadcast and every newspaper report of missing children, and discovered no tale of an hours-old infant stolen from a hospital or a new mother. Though it would have been the most logical explanation, Edith still couldn't bring herself to believe it. She didn't know how, and didn't really care how, but Ned was theirs, the child they had lost given back to them again.

She had been waiting for the other shoe to drop for so long that her worry took a long time to fade. Ned passed his first year of life without any serious illness. Occasionally he caught a cold, but his temperature never rose more than a degree, and his mood was almost always cheerful. He took his first steps with deliberation, and fell only rarely. Once Edith and James had him on a consistent feeding schedule, even if he woke up a few minutes early, he would amuse himself with the toys in his inherited crib until his parents came to retrieve him. He had no colic, few stomachaches, and even teething wasn't the nightmare Edith's siblings told her it might be.

Her family seemed to forget their hurt over not being invited to Ned's birth fairly easily; James's family was even faster to forgive, and all of them commented on how very well-behaved he was. He radiated calm, and he was quick to pick up new ideas. One of his cousins was learning sign language, and by the end of the afternoon they spent at that house, Ned could mimic a few of the gestures fairly accurately.

He had James's hair and eyes and jawline, and Edith's nose and smile. He looked like them, and he was theirs, and even when he was two years old, even though Edith knew the truth, she also found it very easy to slip into the lie, even to herself. She remembered the cold, blustery night of his arrival on their front porch, but she had also talked about his birth so many times she could imagine it. She could see the hospital room, the masked doctor asking her to push, could hear his first cry as though she had been there to witness it. The longer her heart believed it true, the more that urgency, the fear someone would find out the physical truth, faded. She and James decided not to tell Ned because there was nothing to tell. He was their son.

His first day of preschool broke Edith's heart, because they had spent so much time together, and she missed him when he was gone, worried about him being hurt on the playground or becoming bewildered or scared. She took photographs of him in his first-day outfit with his brand-new backpack, a grin on his handsome face, and he told her he loved her and gave her a kiss before walking into his new classroom. She knew that he needed to spend time around children his own age, that the time he spent with his cousins wasn't frequent enough, but she still worried.

Ned loved school, though. He loved meeting new people, and he counted all the members of his class as his friends by the end of the year. He was never picked last for any group games, and often ended up team captain. His deliberation and unnatural sense of balance became grace and speed on the playground and the fields. Almost every weekend he was invited to another birthday party, and so Edith and James met many of his classmates at Mapleton Preschool and then at Mapleton Elementary.

In first grade, Edith sent Ned to school on Valentine's Day with a set of miniature cards and small candies; he came home that afternoon, his construction paper pouch overflowing with cards from his classmates. Edith looked through them with a smile as Ned amassed a small pile of candies and lollipops, and ate his usual after-school snack of apple slices with peanut butter and milk.

"So you got a lot of valentines today, huh," Edith said, ruffling his hair.

Ned nodded. "A few people didn't have many valentines so I made them some more," he told her. "Can I have a piece of candy, Mom?"

From the first day Ned had called her Mama, Edith's heart had warmed every time he called her his mother. "Just one," she told him. "Don't want to spoil your dinner. So... do you like any of the little girls in your class?"

Ned shrugged. "They're all neat," he said, looking through the candy. His tone was polite.

"Is there any little girl you think is cuter than the others?"

Ned shook his head. "How about this one?"

She nodded and he unwrapped a small chocolate heart and popped it into his mouth with a smile. "Is there anyone? Maybe your teacher?"

Ned shrugged again. "They're all neat," he repeated. "Can I show you the picture I made today?"

"Sure you can, honey."

He begged her to play little league, and as soon as he was old enough, he was on the middle school sports teams, everything the coaches would let him play. James went to every game he could; Edith was there cheering him on during his hits on the baseball diamond, his shots on the basketball court, and her heart in her mouth during every football game. He was smart as a whip and devoted to his friends, and though Edith watched closely, she never saw any sign that their son was romantically interested in any girl, or any boy. He would go out with a group of friends, and although he mentioned sometimes that a girl gave him some signs she wanted to go out with him alone, he never took them up on it.

"Do you think he's just not... interested?" Edith asked James one night when they were preparing for bed, when Ned was fourteen. She would have understood if Ned had said that girls were gross or bossy or pushy, but he didn't. If he loved, he loved everyone equally. But that love was friendship. He didn't develop crushes. Girls developed crushes on him.

"He's young," James answered. "He has a long time to figure out how he feels. Given everything else, we'll have our hands full in a few years."

Edith shook her head with a soft sigh. Ned's cousins, almost all of them older, were in their teens and early twenties. When Edith and James talked to their siblings, they heard stories about pregnancy scares, nights their nieces and nephews spent getting drunk and returning with hangovers, dropping out of college after a semester or two, crashing cars, spending money irresponsibly, slamming doors and ignoring chores. Even the polite, well-adjusted ones had their moments, when they acted out, made foolish decisions, made their parents crazy with worry or anger. Ned had been so well-behaved that Edith dreaded the change they would likely see when he became a teenager. He even rose without grumbling or complaint on Sunday mornings to accompany them to church, and then to what had become the usual Sunday lunch with either Edith's parents or James's parents.

"Besides, he might become interested in some girl who's a terrible influence," Edith said, settling down beside James. "It's just that his judgement has been so good. We're blessed to have him, but I feel like he's blessed, too."

"Not one serious injury in all the time he's spent playing sports," James pointed out. "I couldn't have asked for a better son."

They couldn't have, Edith realized. After Ned's arrival, they hadn't talked much about having another child. Edith believed Dr. Anderson's diagnosis of their incompatibility, and she never wanted to put herself through the pain and despair of another miscarriage. Ned was everything they had ever wanted, and though Edith would have been overjoyed to have a little girl in addition to their little boy, she was more than grateful to have Ned at all.

She had to work hard on letting him be independent, though. Her instinct was always to protect him and keep him out of danger, but he had been climbing trees since he was old enough to get a good grip, going on scouting camping trips and trips with his father. He loved being outside, being _active_ , being free, and in the summers he came in at twilight, hair bleached lighter by the sun, his long limbs muscular and tanned, exhausted but happy.

He was so softhearted, too. He kept a little box in the garage that he referred to as his animal hospital kit, and Edith and James couldn't resist when he begged for bags of food so he could feed strays in the neighborhood. Ned made makeshift splints for bird's wings and hurt legs, bringing food to mother cats and dogs he found with their new babies and carefully offering it to them. But he loved birds; he loved studying airplanes, and he had already begged them to let him learn how to fly a small craft when he was old enough. He couldn't stand it when he saw anyone being bullied, be it a cat, a dog, or a human being, and Edith was pretty sure that for every time he told her he'd stood up to someone, he hadn't told her about three or four other times.

He didn't fight, and that was the only reason he wasn't suspended or taken out of class. His confrontations were always quiet and polite, but forceful, and when he had that look in his eye, James and Edith were glad that his requests were always benign and reasonable. Half the time, the victims of the bullying _and_ the people Ned called out for bad behavior became his friends afterward, and he accepted them happily.

People didn't betray Ned. They were drawn to him.

What amazed Edith most was the easy, innocent way he naturally became the leader of his friends. When they saw him standing up to bullies picking on weaker kids, they followed his example. When he rescued bedraggled cats and limping dogs, they did too. They weren't at ease in their skin, with who they were, but he was, even at fourteen, at fifteen, when Edith and James watched their precious only child start to become an adult. His friends wanted to be like him, and Edith and James's friends and siblings were jealous, in awe. It wasn't just the love Edith felt for him as his mother that clouded her judgement and made her see him as close to perfect. Ned seemed to radiate goodness and peace. He seemed to glow.

On the last day of school during his sophomore year, one of his friends from school invited Ned and a few other people in their group to go to the lake once they were dismissed, and Edith and James reluctantly gave their approval, as long as he was home by eleven o'clock. Kay Marshall called Edith around eight o'clock, and when she found out that Ned was with the group, she heaved a sigh of relief. "It's not that I don't trust Robbie," Kay said, and Edith smiled at the half-truth of it. "But I know that if Ned's there, it'll be okay."

And it was. Ned had kept his good judgement; if he was going to be out after curfew, he called his parents. Kids stopped teasing him about it when they realized it didn't bother him to be seen as responsible. Edith and James had always told him that if he was in a bad situation or feeling unsafe, if the person driving was unable to drive, to call and they would come get him wherever he was.

Edith did trust him, but that didn't mean she didn't stay awake while he was away. She and James were both on the couch, James reading a book and Edith half-watching the news while she hemmed a new pair of pants, when they heard a car pull up outside, a series of farewell shouts, and footsteps on the porch. James took his reading glasses off and Edith glanced up as Ned opened the front door.

His father had been and still was a very handsome man, and Ned had taken after him. He was tall and beginning to fill out; his appetite was bottomless, but it turned to muscle on his athletic body. He swept his hand through his dark, still-damp hair and smiled at his parents, toeing out of his sneakers before he came into the living room.

"Have a good time?" James asked with a smile.

"It was nice," Ned said, his own smile lighting his face. "We stopped for shakes on the way back into town, but I swam so much this afternoon that I'm ravenous."

"Then you might be interested in the brownies on the counter," Edith commented, and Ned practically bolted for the kitchen, the duffel bag that doubtless contained his wet swim trunks and towels still over his shoulder. "Don't forget to throw your clothes in the washroom!"

"Okay," Ned called back, and Edith chuckled. It sounded like his mouth was already full of brownie. "Mom, Dad, you want some?"

"Just one," Edith called back.

"And a glass of milk," James called, too.

That was one thing Edith could always count on, that Ned loved chocolate. He brought them each a brownie and a glass of milk, and then snagged another for himself and settled between his parents on the couch. "So, mind hitting the links with your dad this Saturday, or do you already have something lined up?"

Ned shook his head, swallowing the last bite of his dessert. "Sounds like fun," he said with a smile. "Mom, don't you want to come?"

She smiled and wiped her fingers before returning to her sewing. "No, it's fine. It'll be nice for you two to spend some time together."

"Maybe we can all go out to a movie Saturday afternoon," Ned suggested, looking between his parents. "I've missed you guys."

Edith swallowed hard, glancing over at him. His dark eyes were warm and sincere, and she realized again that in two years, she and James would likely start buying him supplies for college. If he went to his father's alma mater, that meant he would be four hours away...

But at least they had two more years with him.

"That sounds like a great idea," she told him. "I'd love to. If we can find something we all agree on, anyway."

Over the summer, she saw Ned spend time with groups of friends, and even go out to lunch with a specific guy or girl every now and then, but the rest of the time he was with them, helping her weed the garden and mow the yard, going out before dinner with his father for driving lessons. He ran in the mornings when the sun was just rising, before the day turned stifling-hot. She often found him shooting hoops in the driveway with other neighborhood kids or alone, sprawled out in the hammock in the backyard, sketching or reading or daydreaming, a long-drained glass of lemonade already dry on the ground beneath.

She told herself that James was right. Ned seemed so assured and serene that sometimes she forgot he was a teenaged boy, going through changes she couldn't begin to understand. He was happy; his heart had never been broken, and he had never pined in vain for a particular classmate, as far as Edith knew. He was so tenderhearted that she hated the thought of him giving his love to someone and finding it unreturned. It made her think of how she had pined and prayed and begged for him when she had been pregnant, and how thoroughly her heart had broken when she realized she was miscarrying.

She hoped that he was always as happy as he looked that summer he was fifteen, still growing into his changing body, in love with all he saw around him, respected and loved by all who knew him. She hoped he never knew loss the way his parents had.

But she couldn't help wishing him more than just happiness, even though her heart told her the risks, that part of her that had been shattered and knit back together by love.

She couldn't help wishing him joy.


	3. Chapter 3

Ned was eight years old when he started to realize just how different he was.

It was a Saturday, and he was on his second scouts outing; they were spending the morning at the Muskoka River, working on their nature badges. The troop leader had invited along two volunteers to help keep track of all of them, since they were looking for different things to bring back: leaves, rocks, feathers if they could find them on the ground. Ned was in a group with Lee and Bick—his name was Danvers Bickford, but everyone called him Bick—searching for samples. Ned had decided on trying to find the feather and maybe a rock. Lee was searching for a four-leaf clover, and Ned had spent time in the garden with his mom, so he didn't like ripping plants up, especially when they smelled so sweet. Lee and Bick weren't far behind Ned, and Ned saw a large furry bumblebee in the clover. The bee rose, hovering a few feet off the ground, then swooped to another patch not far away. Ned smiled, keeping still and just watching.

Bick recoiled, though. "A bee! I can't be around bees!"

"Oh, c'mon. Don't be a baby."

"I get all swelled up!" Bick protested to Lee.

"It's okay," Ned called back. "If I find a clover I'll let you know."

They left Ned to it, and he stepped into the trees, tipping his head back and smiling at the cool shade. He heard the lazy drone of other bees, birds twittering overhead, the water. And then he heard, upstream, shouting.

"I'm gonna tell!"

"Baby! You're just afraid!"

The last was followed by a splash, and Ned, eyes wide, ran to the bank of the river, the river they had been told to stay away from. People had drowned in it; the current was fast, the water deep.

Henry was bobbing in the river, his mouth wide in a silent shout as he was pulled under again.

Henry was seven years old, and he bragged all the time. At every troop meeting, he showed up with something new: a fancy new watch he could program and play a game on, a backpack with dozens of pockets, a Swiss army knife that made all the other boys sullen with jealousy. Ned had never really talked to him that much. Henry seemed to ignore him.

But he was in trouble.

The troops upstream were calling for help, but Ned knew the adults were too far away, and by the time they ran to the shouting, Henry would be far downstream. Once he decided, he didn't feel any doubt or fear. He dove into the water.

He had learned to swim when he was a baby, and he had been in the stream at his grandparents' farm when his cousins were around, but the river was cold and _fast_. Ned flung his arm out and managed to grip the steep bank in his fist, reaching out with the other and catching Henry by his collar. The other boy flailed and then caught Ned's arm, gasping, teeth chattering, a low whine in his throat.

Now that he had a grip on Henry, they had to find a way to get out of the river before Ned lost his grip and they were both swept downstream. He glanced around, trying to find something to climb on the bank, and spotted a lower place just before a bend. "Hang on," he told Henry, and the other boy nodded, his hair wet and plastered to his pale gleaming face.

Ned released the handful of earth and kept them both above water as he steered them toward the indentation he had seen. A tree was growing on the bank, and its roots were partially submerged in the soil; Ned wrapped his fingers around them and gave Henry a boost, supporting him as he began to scrabble up onto dry land, coughing and gasping for breath.

Ned's clothes were drenched and waterlogged, his shoes weighing down his feet. Keeping himself in one place against the current was exhausting, and he had only his own strength to pull himself up; Henry was sprawled and gasping on the grass, and he would have been little help.

But Ned grasped the tree roots until he managed to find a foothold, then pushed himself up. He didn't feel fear or anxiety; he was calm and steady. On the bank, Ned's legs were streaked with mud and he shivered a little at the breeze, but he went to Henry to make sure the younger boy was okay. He was still coughing a little and shivering, but otherwise he seemed all right.

"Ned?" Henry looked up at him, and Ned patted his arm.

"You're okay."

Ned was prepared to help Henry walk back to the main camp, but less than a minute later, other scouts and the chaperones descended on them. Henry was immediately scooped up and carried back to the camp, and Ned heard the leader saying they should take him to the hospital to get him checked out. Bick and Lee came over to Ned and asked if he had really gone into the river to pull Henry out, but Ned just shrugged, even though he was dripping. He hadn't done it for recognition or adoration. He had done it because Henry needed help.

"Dude, you've gotta be freezing. Let's go get him a blanket," Bick said to Lee, and they set off at a run toward the main camp.

Ned looked up at the other chaperone, who had stuck around. She was the only woman in their entire group, and to Ned, she looked like a teacher or one of his mother's friends. She had dark-red hair and dark eyes, and she smiled at him; he had the vaguest memories of her, as though he had seen her but they had never really met. "Are you all right?"

Ned nodded, his arms still wrapped around his torso; she helped him to his feet, clucking in concern when she touched his wet shoulder. "I'm okay. Thank you."

"I'm Angie," she told him, and he looked up into her eyes. She wasn't like the other adults he knew. He wasn't sure how or why, but he knew. "I knew your mom when she was pregnant with you, a long time ago."

"Oh," he murmured.

"I hope she's doing well. I haven't been able to keep in touch with her." Angie sighed. "Can I talk to you for a minute?"

Ned nodded again. He knew he should be cold, but he wasn't. Everyone was so distracted by Henry that the two of them were alone.

"You have a light in you," she told him. "You like helping people, don't you?"

Ned nodded again. What Angie called "light," his mother called "good." She told him to be good, to obey what he had been taught, to do what he could to help other people, and he always did.

"They're like us, in a way," she said softly, kneeling down so their faces were level. She patted his arm. "But sometimes it's not as clear to them, what the right thing to do is. Help them when you can. That's what we're here to do."

Ned nodded again. "Okay."

She smiled again. "They love you so much, don't they," she murmured. "Your mom and dad."

"Yes."

"I'm glad. Your mom and your dad loved you for so long, Ned. Even before you were born. You're a special boy. Come on, let's go find your friends." She stood up, taking off her coat, and draped it over his shoulders; it kept the wind off his soaked clothes.

"Thanks, Angie."

She took his hand and they started walking. "One day," she told him, "you will meet someone, and that light in you will be so bright that you'll want to share it. That's your choice, Ned. But once you make that choice, it's very hard to take it back. So make it carefully." He cast a questioning glance up at her, and she smiled. "I know, it doesn't make sense now. But it will.

"They're scared," she told him, as they saw the scouts through the trees. "That's why they hurt each other."

"But we're not scared," he said.

"We aren't," she agreed. Then she stopped, squatting down beside him again and looking into his eyes. "That light inside you means nothing can truly hurt you. Not unless you give a part of that light to someone else."

He nodded, and she patted his shoulder.

"You're going to be just fine."

The scout master insisted on taking Ned and Henry to the hospital, just to get checked out, just in case, and Ned's mother came to pick him up at the emergency room, holding him tight when she found him. Ned closed his eyes and hugged her in return. Ned had always known that she loved him. He had never doubted it, just as he had never doubted his love for his parents.

In the excitement of the afternoon, he forgot to mention Angie to his mother. She took him home and he took a warm shower, changed clothes and dried his hair. Then he came downstairs and his mother wrapped him in a soft blanket and kissed the crown of his head, and even though it had been ages since he had willingly taken a nap, he fell asleep in his mother's arms. When he woke, she had made double chocolate cookies, and his father was home. He gave Ned a long hug, holding him tight and telling him that he was so glad he was safe, before Ned ate his afternoon snack.

They had loved him before he was ever born. And he had loved them before he was born, too. They had always, always been there for him. They loved each other and they loved him, and he loved them in return.

A few months later, he overheard one of the scouts saying that Miss Angie had moved away, and every now and then he wondered where she had gone, but he didn't think he would ever see her again.

He didn't forget her words, though. He helped the people around him whenever he could, just as he had always tried, but the older he became, the easier it was, the more opportunities he found. Most of the people he helped were scared and hurting, just as Angie had said. And most of those people, after he helped them, became his friends. He had done something to make their lives better, if only for a little while. They wanted to do the same thing.

But he wasn't like them. He thought about it later. Angie had talked about him like they were the same, and everyone else was different. She was right.

Other players on the baseball team hated being in the outfield, but no matter where Ned chose to stand, it was almost always the right place; the ball seemed drawn to his glove like metal to a magnet. He caught passes on the basketball court without trying; when he was throwing or receiving the football, it was like everyone on the field lined up to help complete the pass. The sky could be dark with roiling clouds when his mother was driving him to school, but the rain wouldn't start until he was safely inside. He split a drink with a friend who had been coughing all day, and who came down with a miserable flu; Ned had a sore throat for an hour, but it passed quickly. He always landed on his feet. He almost never dropped anything. He found everything he learned about in school to be fascinating, with few exceptions, and he had near-perfect recall.

After his talk with Angie, he noticed that it wasn't the same for everyone else.

He helped classmates study and train, and gave them encouraging notes and smiles. He befriended the new kids, the ones who were painfully shy, who couldn't communicate very well, the ones who were picked last—the ones who were hurting. He stood up for them. He stood up for anyone who needed it, and because he had no fear, it helped them try to get over theirs.

Around the same time Ned started high school, his friends were constantly complaining about their parents and siblings, about having to do chores, to hang out with their families when they were desperate to get away, to do anything else. They were frustrated and bored, sick of being treated like children, eager for independence and freedom. They dated each other, fell in love that lasted an hour or a day before it faded, or wished to fall in love. Every song they heard seemed to speak to them.

Ned listened and encouraged, but he didn't understand, not really. He loved spending time with his parents. He loved when they would go out into the backyard on warm clear nights, spread out a blanket and point out the constellations. He loved going to the library in town with his father, because every trip, his father recommended another book he had read that he thought Ned might enjoy, and the two of them picked out books to take home to Ned's mother. He loved going to the movies with his parents, gardening with his mother, learning how to change the oil in a car from his father.

And when the girls he knew talked about maybe seeing him alone, after the first few times, Ned learned to avoid it. They wanted relationships. They wanted to hold hands, to go on dates, to go to dances together. They wanted what other boys could offer them.

But Ned loved all his friends, and he was far more comfortable with going out as a group. He just didn't feel for them what they wanted.

He knew he didn't, because he saw the way his parents felt about each other. They laughed together, held hands, and shared kisses. His father brought his mother flowers on her birthday, on their anniversary, and sometimes for no reason at all; he bought seeds for her garden, and when he was out of town, he went to flea markets and antique stores and brought back old books of regional recipes to add to his wife's collection. Ned's mother made special desserts for Ned and his father; she packed their lunches and left little notes tucked in the bags, and she was always happy to play games with Ned and his father. His father did the dishes half the time, and Ned the other half; Edith was always happy on nights the boys wanted to grill out, because it meant less work for her. Ned's father had told Ned that it wasn't a favor he was doing, not the way Ned had seen at other people's houses. Ned's mother loved to cook, and his father said it was only fair for him to take care of the dishes. They all pitched in when Edith decided it was time for spring cleaning, airing out all the rooms, cleaning the floors and the windows, all of it.

When Ned was young, his father told him that love had created him, and that there were many different kinds of love—but one day he might meet someone, someone who was his best friend, someone who made him happier than he had ever been before. Someone who made Ned feel the same way his father felt about his mother.

Ned had seen it in his grandparents' relationships, in his parents' relationship. They supported each other, cared about each other, comforted each other. But his father loved his mother differently than he loved anyone else, and his mother loved his father the same way.

Ned knew it was rare. He saw that for most people, the feeling burned out or faded or soured. Sometimes love burned in one person when it had died in the other.

That, at least, Ned understood. He loved everyone. When he broke up fights or asked people to stop bullying, sometimes the culprit lashed out at him, trying to mock or provoke him, growing more frustrated when Ned didn't reply or react to it. Some of them were almost aching for love, for acceptance. Some of them had been hurting for so long that something inside them had broken, and Ned felt pity for them.

Angie had told him that he couldn't be hurt; he rarely needed that reassurance. He ducked or otherwise avoided punches; his feet were always in the right place. He knew his mother was worried when he wanted to try out for the varsity football team, but the worst injury he had ever received was a mildly sprained ankle that was good as new after thirty minutes.

It was during high school, when many of the students around him seemed to be falling into and out of relationships, going on romantic dates, learning how to kiss and deal with their raging hormones, that Ned wondered if he would ever go through that, or if it was another way he was different. He didn't look at girls in his class and daydream about kissing them—or at boys, either. If he had been interested in boys, it wouldn't have troubled him, and he sensed that his parents wouldn't have been too upset either. But he didn't feel that way about anyone around him.

He sensed that his parents, his mother particularly, wanted him to. When his parents invited the Logans and some of their other friends over for dinner parties, Ned felt it even more strongly when the other adults asked if he was seeing someone special, when they said he would meet someone, exchanging knowing glances. It would make Ned's mother happy to see him with a sweet, pretty girl, he knew, and Ned knew several who would likely jump at the chance to date him. For a few days during the summer before his junior year, he considered it. He thought about just trying it. Maybe if he went on a date with a girl, the feelings would somehow mysteriously follow.

He didn't think they would, though. He thought it was another way he was different. His friends confided in him; they called him when they were sad, lonely, hurt, angry, and he reassured them, went by to see them, organized activities with other friends to keep them from drowning. Often that sadness and depression involved a broken romantic relationship, and Ned strongly disliked the idea that he might inadvertently hurt someone just for the sake of an experiment, that a girl might fall in love with him when he couldn't feel the same way about her.

There was so much in his life that made him happy, and he didn't feel an emptiness or a lack when he thought about dating. He decided that he would just not worry about it, to let it happen when it happened—maybe it never would, and he didn't mind that.

On Ned's sixteenth birthday, that October, his father took him down to the used car lot in town and told him how much he was willing to spend. "I know some of your friends from school have sleek, nice cars, but your first car is like your practice car," he explained to Ned. "You're still learning, and you might hit a pole in a gas station parking lot or scrape it against something—it happens. When you're older, when you're more experienced with driving, it makes sense to get a more expensive car."

Ned nodded with a smile. He was always very conscientious while driving, and that uncanny luck had held so far even when he was behind the wheel of a car. When he had felt a sudden hunch he should brake, he saw a deer flash out of the woods before his eyes, a deer he would have struck if he hadn't obeyed that hunch. Once he and his friends had driven out farther than they had thought, and they had been able to scrounge up the change between them to buy the gas they needed to get home. He was just lucky that way.

The car Ned picked out was a four-door, almost ten years old; he could tell that it would look better after a thorough wash and wax and detailing, and the mechanic Ned's father asked to check it out told them that the engine looked good. Once the man at the dealership handed over the keys, Ned took them with a promise that he would always be responsible with the car, and he promised to do all the yard work the next summer as repayment, which just made his father laugh.

"You deserve the car," his father told him, when Ned had carefully parked it in the driveway and was regarding it with a smile. "You do. I couldn't be more proud of you, Ned. I'm thankful every day that your mom and I were blessed with you, and I love you more than I could ever say."

Ned hugged his father and felt him embrace him in return. "I love you too, Dad," he told him. "I'm so glad I have you and Mom."

His father ruffled his hair, then released him with a smile. "I have a feeling your mother is going to want you to take her for a spin in your new car," he commented as they went up the walk.

Ned jumped at the chance to do any errand for his parents, especially since he had his own car. When his mother needed groceries, when his father needed supplies from the hardware store, Ned had his keys in his hand in seconds. He knew his mother worried about him in his new car, just as she always worried about him when he was in a situation she saw as potentially dangerous, but when the first few weeks of his driving alone passed without incident, she began to relax, and Ned was glad.

His friends were impressed with his new car, though they teased him about it, asking if his father had refused to buy him anything newer, if he had picked the four-door for its big backseat. Ned just shook his head. He loved the freedom of the car, being able to go where he wanted and offer rides to his friends when he could, but he still came home for dinner and at curfew. And most of the time, his mother still offered to drop him off at school and pick him up, and Ned accepted her offer. He liked the time with her, and he knew she did too.

"So," his mother said one of those mornings, as they were waiting for the heater to warm the car before they departed. "The winter dance is coming up next month, isn't it?"

Ned nodded. "Ms. Monroe asked me to help out with the decorations, too. And I think she mentioned maybe asking you if you could make some cupcakes."

"I'm sure that's going to be a tall order," his mother commented, but she was smiling. She loved baking for people. "Do you know someone you might want to take?"

Ned shook his head. He didn't want to single any particular girl out and make anyone else jealous, or confuse the girl.

"You could ask one of your cousins to go with you," she pointed out. "Maybe Stephanie or Rachel."

Ned shrugged. "I don't know," he said. "I'll probably just go with a group of people, like usual. But you could be a chaperone," he said, and smiled. "You and Dad."

His mother smiled. "We'll see."

She let the topic drop, but at school it kept coming up: comments about what people were planning to wear, what the decorations would be, whether it would be cool or not. The knowledge that Ned would be helping decorate for it, and that he would be there, seemed to make several of his friends decide it would be worth the trouble of finding a great outfit and making an appearance.

A few girls approached Ned, and he told them sincerely that he would be happy to include them in his group. He told a tall, awkwardly shy girl who was going in his group that he would be sure to save a dance for her, if she wanted—and she blushed and giggled, but he noticed that she didn't stop grinning for the rest of the day. It reminded him of when he would make cards for the less popular kids in elementary school, when he was named team captain and immediately picked the kids everyone else would have picked last. The dance was a way for them to have fun, not something that should be awkward and depressing for his friends. And almost everyone was Ned's friend. Ms. Monroe had commented to another teacher in what she had thought was out of Ned's earshot that she would eat her chalkboard eraser if he wasn't named both student body president and prom king—unanimously.

He hoped she wasn't right. He never wanted the recognition, and so many of the guys he knew would have been overjoyed to be named prom king, homecoming king, student body president.

Two Saturdays before the dance, Ned had dropped off a few of his teammates following the morning practice and was on his way home, driving through the countryside. The weather had turned cold, and the bared branches of the trees beside the road swayed and clawed at the dirty-white sky. The back road had been fairly well traveled a long time ago, but many of the houses, set well back and enveloped by the encroaching woods, had been abandoned and fallen into disrepair. Sometimes Ned caught a glimpse through the trees, of an iron gate or brick post or a miraculously intact flashing pane of glass, but more often he saw only ditches filled with curled dead leaves and trees that shot up quick as weeds in the wet summertime.

Then he glanced up above the treeline and saw what appeared to be a snatch of drifting smoke, ripped to dissipating shreds by the wind. He rolled down his window and caught the acrid scent of it in the air, and immediately began searching for what the source might be, worried that someone might be trapped by it. His head knew it might be someone defiantly burning trash in a backyard, but with so much dead grass and dry wood underfoot, burning trash was foolhardy at best, a likely disaster at worst. His heart was afraid of the worst.

He located the source and pulled in. His father had pointed the tall, elegant three-story home out to Ned during a ride in the country—Ned seemed to remember that it was owned by the Raybolts, and his father, generally a very easygoing man, didn't have a very high opinion of them. The house was clearly on fire, though, and no one lived close enough for him to quickly summon help. He had a distant memory that the house might be abandoned, or that the family might go elsewhere for the winter, but then he spotted a sleek blue car in the driveway near the house. No one was inside the car, and soon the flames would be close enough to threaten it.

Ned made sure to park his own car at the edge of the driveway but closer to the road, then leapt out of the driver's seat, pocketing his keys and zipping up his coat as he ran toward the house. "Hello? Anyone here?" he called, scanning the windows for any signs of life. They were all closed; he saw no panicked faces. "Hello?"

The wind was louder, whipping the flames dancing on the roof into a more intense frenzy instead of blowing them out. Ned glanced up at the sullen white sky, wishing that rain or snow might fall to help—and as though in answer, a few seconds later, large white flakes began to fall.

"Hello?"

"Stop! Please!"

It was the first answer to his call Ned had heard, and he cast a worried glance back at the blue car before he ran around the side of the house. He was fast enough to see a flash of a black wool coat, long hair whipping from beneath a blue knit cap, before the figure vanished into the trees. He heard a few indistinct shouts and other voices, but he plunged into the trees, blinking as his eyes adjusted to the dimmer light, the glare of sky above the skeletal trees.

"Oh," the other voice sighed, and when Ned circled a large lightning-blasted tree he saw her. She turned to him, her mouth a round O of surprise, her blue eyes wide—and then her shoulders slumped a little. "There was a man—he was running away from the house and I was trying to stop him."

"Is anyone still inside?" he asked, and realized he was breathless. Her gaze searched his—

And suddenly, in the blink of an eye, in the space of a single heartbeat, he _knew_. He knew what Angie had meant eight years ago, on the banks of the river while he had been drenched from pulling Henry out of the water. He knew what he had never understood until right now. The knowledge was so intense, so pure, that he wouldn't be surprised if he was visibly glowing with it.

He would sacrifice himself to save her, this tall girl with reddish-gold hair and deep blue eyes. He would walk straight through fire, straight into a hurricane, for her. He was _meant_ to protect her and keep her safe, no matter what. Everything else had been practice and preparation. For as long as he existed, he would do anything he could for her. And he didn't even know her name.

"I don't know," she replied, and when she began to run back toward the house, her gloved fingertips brushed his—and then their hands were joined, and he didn't remember it happening. "What's your name?"

"Ned Nickerson. What's yours?"

She glanced up at him, easily keeping pace with him, and smiled, her eyes bright with excitement. "Nancy Drew."


	4. Chapter 4

Ned came out of the burning mansion shaking his head, smelling like smoke and ash. He had insisted on being the only one to go inside while Nancy found her friends and looked for the man she had seen fleeing. He had heard the sirens, and as soon as he stepped onto the porch, a wailing fire engine came to a stop near the house.

"Anyone else in the building?" the driver of the fire engine called to Ned, and Ned shook his head. "Please get back!"

Nancy's blue eyes were wide with admiration as she and her friends went to their cars. "You'd better get your car back before it's either on fire or drenched," Ned pointed out.

Nancy nodded, then glanced at the driveway. Two police cars and a truck had pulled up, too. "We're not going to find anything else until after the fire's out," she sighed. "I..."

The blonde girl at Nancy's side bumped her shoulder against Nancy's. "Do you know a place near here where we could get a snack?" she asked.

The taller, dark-haired girl on Nancy's other side made an exasperated sound. "After we practically had a three-course meal at the festival," she muttered.

The blonde glared at the brunette. Ned cleared his throat. "There's a pretty cool soda fountain at the drugstore in Mapleton," he volunteered.

"We're not too familiar with Mapleton," Nancy admitted.

"Maybe we could follow you there?" the blonde added with a smile.

For the first time in his memory, Ned felt a little nervous about being around someone, but he was relieved to have an excuse to spend more time with Nancy, making sure she and her two friends were safe during the snowfall. If he knew them better, it wouldn't be hard or strange to suggest that he make sure they made it to where they were going safely.

He just felt so _aware_ of her. It hummed under his skin. He became aware that he was staring at her too much and tried to stop, but he was always aware when her gaze was on him, and he had to look back at her.

He concentrated on driving and keeping an eye on both the road ahead of them and the sleek blue car behind his. He didn't know how much experience she had driving, and the fluffy white snowflakes made curves difficult to see. They made it to Mapleton without incident, though, and the downtown area looked like an old-fashioned Christmas card. The sidewalks in front of the stores were carpeted in a shallow layer of fluffy snow, and the streetlights had come on.

Nancy and her friends giggled and exclaimed in delight when they climbed out of the car. "It's so pretty," Nancy said. "Thanks for suggesting that we come here, Ned."

He smiled. "Come on, let's get inside. It's getting pretty cold."

He held the door. The brunette walked through first, followed by the blonde. Nancy turned to gaze up at him as she walked through, though, and Ned felt that strange fluttering awareness again.

The girl behind the soda fountain made each of them a tall hot chocolate capped in whipped cream, and they took the only table large enough to fit all four of them. It was near the window, and though the snow was pretty, he was relieved when it turned to rain. At least that would help the firefighters, he hoped.

"So do you know the Raybolts?" Ned asked.

The brunette smiled at the blonde. "See, I was right," she said, and the blonde wrinkled her nose at her. "No, we just stopped because we saw smoke."

"We were on the way back from the fall festival a few towns over," Nancy said. "Me and Bess and George. So do you know the Raybolts?"

Ned shook his head. "I don't, and I stopped for the same reason you did," he said. "But you saw a man running away from the fire?"

Nancy nodded, and reached into a pocket of her coat. She pulled out a small hard-bound journal. "I think he dropped this when he was running away," she said. "It didn't look like it had been outside very long. Maybe we can find him this way."

"Do you think he set the fire?"

"I don't know," Nancy said. "But he might have seen the person who did. Maybe he was afraid he would be accused of it. I'm not sure."

The blonde, Bess, licked a trace of whipped cream from her lip and smiled at Ned. "This is what Nancy does for fun," she explained. "And your name is Ned?"

Ned nodded. "Short for Edmund," he told them. "I was named after my grandfather. Does for fun?" he repeated, looking at Nancy.

"I like mysteries," she said, and her face lit up with a smile as she looked into his eyes. "I seem to run into them a good deal."

"So do you live in Mapleton, Ned?" the brunette, George, asked.

Ned nodded, and he discovered that the three girls were attending River Heights High, and that George was the only one with her driver's license; Nancy and Bess were fifteen. Nancy was impatient to look through the small notebook for clues, though.

Ned glanced down at his watch, and his eyes widened. "Lunch was fifteen minutes ago," he said. "No wonder I'm famished. I'll be right back."

He asked permission to use the pharmacy's phone, then called his house. "Nickerson residence," his mother answered.

"Mom? Hi. I'm really sorry. I was on the way back and I saw that the old Raybolt place was on fire, so I stopped to help and lost track of time. I'm in Mapleton, though, and I'll be home soon."

"It's fine," his mother said, and he could hear that she was smiling. "I was a little worried about you when the snow started, but I don't think it's quite so bad now. Take your time. Your lunch will keep."

"All right." Ned paused. "I met a—well, there's a girl, and I might make sure she and her friends get back to River Heights safely before I come home...?"

"That's very considerate of you, honey. Just drive carefully."

Ned returned to the table, and the three girls gazed up at him—and Ned found, again, that he couldn't seem to stop gazing at Nancy. "If you're hungry, we could go to a restaurant?" she suggested, and then Bess giggled, her eyes bright.

"No, no, it's all right. My mom has lunch waiting for me. But I wanted to make sure the three of you made it back home safely."

The girls glanced at each other. "Well," Nancy said sadly, looking at the journal, "I suppose we won't find out that much today. A lot of the notes in the book are in Swedish, and I know Mr. Petersen might be able to help me translate it, but his bakery isn't open again until Monday."

"He makes the best pastries," Bess volunteered. "Have you been to his shop?"

Ned shook his head. "Swedish? That seems quite strange."

"It does," Nancy agreed, as they began to rise from the table. "Maybe it will make the owner easier to track down."

"Thank you so much for offering to follow us," Bess said, as they went out to the car.

"But you really don't have to," George said, and Bess elbowed her. Nancy glanced up at Ned.

"I mean, if it's an inconvenience..." A soft blush rose in her cheeks.

"It's not, at all. I'm happy to do it," he told them. "Lead the way."

A sedan, only a few years old, was parked in front of the house the sleek blue car led him to. George parked the car, and then all three girls climbed out. "See? No problem at all," George said.

Bess glanced between Nancy and Ned. "And I suppose we really should be getting back home before our parents worry about us," she commented.

"What's that supposed to mean?" Ned heard George mutter as Bess looped an arm through hers and began to almost drag her away. The two girls went to the sedan and slid inside.

"So this is your house?"

Nancy nodded, sweeping a stray lock of curling reddish hair from her forehead as the sedan pulled away from the curb. The wind was freezing, and the rain seemed to be becoming sleet. "Please, come inside," she said. "For just a minute. I know you must be in a hurry..."

Ned nodded, but he couldn't refuse her. He followed her inside, and the warmth of the house enveloped him immediately. Nancy took off her coat and knit cap, wiping the soles of her boots on the mat. "Hannah! I'm home! Is Dad home?"

The house was beautiful. Going with his father to help prepare open houses had given Ned an eye for it, and he couldn't help admiring it. Framed photographs were grouped on one wall, in coordinating frames. Rust-and-orange-plaid cloth was draped over the mantel and the television stand. The floors were a glossy well-maintained hardwood, and a large plush rug anchored the sitting area. The focal point of the room was a large fireplace, and a cheerful crackling fire burned in the hearth. Ned smelled cranberry and sugar, too.

"In here, honey."

Nancy glanced up into Ned's eyes, and when he felt her fingers brush his, he took her hand again. She led him to the kitchen.

Ned had thought that her call to "Hannah" might have been addressed to an older sister, but the woman standing at the counter in the kitchen was middle-aged, her brown hair streaked with gray. "Just took these out of the oven," she said, and then smiled when she saw Ned. "Well, Nancy, I didn't know we had a visitor."

"I'm so sorry. Hannah, this is Ned. We met him near Mapleton when we saw a house smoking and stopped to help."

"Goodness! Was anyone hurt?"

"Not that we could find," Ned told her. "It's nice to meet you."

"Hannah's our housekeeper, cook... well, pretty much everything," Nancy told Ned. "Her cookies are great, too. Are those cranberry macadamia nut?"

"Yes. And if you wait a few minutes, they might even be cool enough to eat. Take your coat off, Ned! Nancy, your father said he expected to be home in about half an hour."

Ned began to shake his head, but then Nancy turned her blue eyes on him again. "Maybe for a minute," he said.

"I know you're in a hurry to get home," she apologized. "I'm sorry. I just wanted to say thanks for helping out today. And I was thinking that maybe tomorrow morning, if you wanted, we could go back to the house and search for any more clues, about what started the fire or that man I saw running away."

"We could go before church," he said. "I don't know if that's too early for you..."

"No, that's fine!" she told him with a smile. "Bess and George don't like getting out of bed too early, anyway, and two sets of eyes are better than one."

Then he realized. She couldn't drive by herself; she would need a ride. "So I'll come pick you up tomorrow morning?" he asked. "Eight-thirty?"

"You'd be going out of your way," she said. "Maybe I can ask my father to drop me off in Mapleton. Could I ask for your number?"

They exchanged phone numbers, and Ned had done that dozens of times—for school and group assignments, to organize rides to scouting events—but the smile she gave him made his stomach flip. He put the scrap of paper bearing her number into his wallet, and then Hannah insisted that he take some cookies home with him.

Nancy walked him to the front door, and they turned to face each other again. "I'll call you after I talk to my dad," she told him. "I... I'm really glad we met, Ned."

"I am too," he told her. "If I'm not home when you call, for some reason, just leave a message with my mom and I'll call you back. But I'll see you tomorrow morning."

She nodded and smiled, and then clasped his hand briefly. "I'll see you then," she said, and for a long moment they just gazed into each other's eyes.

He had seen other girls gazing at him like the way Nancy was looking at him, but he hadn't understood. Nothing in him had ever answered before. But now...

He wanted to keep her safe and protected, and happy. He wanted to be with her all the time, in whatever way she needed him. He wanted to introduce her to his parents and his friends; he wanted to invite her to the dance and tell her that he would save one for her. He wanted to be her friend, to be the person she talked to when she needed reassurance or just a sympathetic shoulder. For the rest of his life, for as long as he existed, he wanted to be there for her. It was all he wanted. It was everything.

And he had no idea how to say it without scaring her.

She smiled again. and he smiled too. "I guess I should be getting home," he said, and when his fingers brushed hers again, he felt that glow again, that happiness and protectiveness. "I'm really glad I met you today, Nancy. And if you... if you need anything, call me. Like a ride somewhere, or just... anything."

Her smile became a grin. "You might regret that," she told him. "My birthday's in April, so I'll need a lot of rides until then..."

"Then it's a good thing you're not so far away." He grinned. "I... I'd better get home. Thank you—thank Hannah for the cookies."

Once he finally managed to force himself to walk back to his car, when he glanced back, she was still gazing at him—but he hadn't even needed to look. He felt her gaze on him. He gave her a little wave, and she waved back.

He couldn't stop thinking about her, not all the way home, not even when he walked in to the smell of bacon. His mother had made one of his favorite cold-weather meals: bacon-wrapped meatloaf with mashed potatoes and peas. He walked into the kitchen and discovered his parents standing at the counter in the middle of a conversation, his father's arm around his mother's waist, and they were gazing at each other, smiling. His mother's eyes were bright when she turned to look at Ned.

"Hey honey. Let me just warm up a plate for you."

Ned looked between his parents for a moment, speechless, his mind still racing. He had met her only a few hours ago. He could still smell the smoke from inside the house clinging to his coat and hair. He could still feel her fingers against his.

"Ned?" his father asked. "Are you all right?"

Ned swallowed and made himself focus on his father's face. "Yeah," he managed to say. "I'm okay."

_I'm hers, and I always will be._

"So you met a girl today? Is she someone from your school, or someone new?" His mother turned to him as she opened the refrigerator. "Milk with your lunch?"

Ned nodded again. "Milk's fine, thank you. Her name's Nancy. Nancy Drew."

\--

Her father dropped her off early the next morning, and they went to the ruins of the Raybolt estate together. Nancy seemed breathless and exhilarated, and she told him everything she had discovered in the journal, the sketches of what she thought were machines, maybe inventions. Ned was delighted that he was accompanying her, so that if she tried to do anything dangerous, he would be there to make sure she didn't get hurt. The house itself was a charred ruin; most of the ceiling had burned, leaving the house open to the elements. Nancy found the door she had seen the man running from the day before, and she and Ned held hands as they directed the beam of a flashlight around the dim blackened space. They found the remains of burned glass and wires, and Nancy thought the fire had likely started in the destroyed room, but she still wasn't convinced the man she had seen had done it.

"He had a nice face," she explained. "He looked scared—but if he had started the fire, you'd think he would look excited and happy, not scared."

"Unless he was afraid you were about to catch him," Ned pointed out.

She smiled. "I don't know. Maybe."

Ned's hand was still holding hers when he spotted something gleaming in the wet grass behind the house. "Hmm," he said, walking over and picking it up. It was a signet ring, a stylized S engraved on its face. "Have you seen this before?"

She accepted it, and Ned had a sudden flash that maybe Nancy had dropped it the day before, that maybe she had a boyfriend—but he didn't really believe it, and he was relieved when she shook her head. "Maybe he dropped this too!" she said with a grin, and squeezed Ned's hand happily. "Oh, you really are good luck!"

Ned grinned, too. "Is there an engraving or anything on the inside, maybe with some initials?"

Nancy turned it toward the light, then shook her head. "No, but it's a good lead," she said.

"That's great, Nancy."

She did a little dance, and when she grinned up at him again, his heart turned over. "I can't wait until tomorrow, when I can take the little journal I found over to Mr. Petersen's bakery! Would you—would you maybe want to go, too?"

Over the next week, whenever he could, he was helping Nancy with her investigation. When they went to the Swenson home and found the cupboards bare and the heat turned off, Ned contributed to the grocery trip they took and helped Nancy prepare a feast for Honey and her mother. He made a call to his father, and a few hours later, the Mapleton Garden Club phone chain had been mobilized, and the ladies had arranged to pay off the outstanding heat bill, along with enough to cover the next month too.

Once they had managed to uncover what had really happened and reunite Joe Swenson with his family, Nancy blushed when they thanked her and her friends for what they had done to help out. Nancy stayed close to Ned during the little celebration, and he was almost achingly aware of every time they touched, every time she glanced in his direction. She hadn't been reluctant to call him and talk about the case or ask for his help, and he had been glad for it, but now that the case was over, he was wondering how he could make sure they stayed in contact. If he invited her to the dance...

He had arranged to drive her home afterward, and once they were on the road back toward River Heights, Nancy cleared her throat. "So," she said, and her voice was quavering a little. She shook her head and started again. "So you were really great when you were helping me—I mean, you were a lot of help. I really appreciated it."

"Any time," Ned replied. "And I mean that. Any time you need help, please call me."

Nancy made a quiet noise. "Are you sure your... that no one will get jealous?" she said. "Even if I need help a lot?"

He smiled. "My friends will understand," he said. "And I'd really like you to meet them. Maybe soon?"

"Sure. I'd love to." She touched his hand, and he squeezed it. "I... I'd like to keep seeing you. Even when, um... I'm sorry," she said suddenly. "I don't know—I'm not good at this. I want to keep spending time with you. If you want to."

He glanced over at her. "I want that too," he told her, and swallowed hard. "Whenever you need me, when you want me there, I'll be there for you. I promise."

She smiled. "Good," she said. "I'm glad."

He walked with her up to her front porch, her hand in his, and they stopped at the door. "I... there's a winter dance at my school in a few weeks," he said. "I'm going with a group of friends... and I want you to come too, if you can. I'll even make sure Bess and George can come too."

Her bright eyes searched his. "Really?"

He nodded, and his stomach flipped before he said, "If I hadn't already made those plans, I'd ask you to come with me as my date."

She squeezed his hand. "I'll go," she told him. "Just promise you'll save me a dance?"

"Always," he told her. He held her gaze, then leaned down and gently brushed his lips against her cheek, feeling the soft warmth of her skin. "For you, always."

\--

On the night of the dance, Edith watched her husband put on a long-sleeved button-down and a candy-cane-striped tie, and couldn't help laughing as she reached for her snowflake-embroidered cardigan. "Very festive," she told him.

"And you," he told her, as she put on the sweater. "Maybe this year I'll buy my girl a new dress for the Christmas dance at the country club. You look beautiful in dark red, sweetheart." He looped an arm around her waist and kissed her temple. "Then again, you look beautiful in anything."

She swatted lightly at him. "Charmer," she smiled as he walked toward the bathroom, finding her slender gold watch. She could never fasten the clasp by herself, though. "Jim...?"

He came out of their bathroom after a spritz of his cologne, and she inhaled it as he bent over her wrist and threaded the clasp through to fasten it. She had always loved the smell of it. "There," he said, smiling at her before he leaned down and pressed a kiss against her lips. "It won't be so bad."

"I know," she said, giving him a little smile. "I guess I'm just eager to see them together."

Jim shook his head. "Honey, you know that we have to give him his space."

"I know," she replied. "But he's spent so much time with her..."

Edith had asked Ned to invite Nancy over for dinner, but he hadn't found an opportunity to do so yet. She had met Nancy a few times, when she and Ned were about to rush off for another errand or clue-finding expedition; the girl was polite, well-mannered, and pretty. She was only fifteen, six months younger than Ned, and she had bright, eager blue eyes. Once she was an adult, Edith thought she would likely be a beauty. And when she stood next to Ned, Nancy looked so fragile and young.

Ned still spent time with his friends, but he spent just as much time with Nancy. Her name came up in every conversation; everything reminded him of her. And even though Ned said that he and Nancy were just friends, he went on dates with only her, and he didn't do that with other friends; he begged his parents for the money to take her out to dinner and the movies, promising to do any chores they named, but they handed over the money without protest. Edith and James had agreed a long time ago that Ned shouldn't have a job while he was in high school unless he specifically asked for it, so that he would have plenty of time to spend on his studies and having fun.

He had never been like this about anyone else, and Edith wanted to get to know her. The girl was too young to be serious about anyone, and Edith didn't know if Ned was serious about her, or if his thoughts were even close to it. But Edith and James had been dating since he was a senior in high school. Maybe Ned's friendship with her would grow into something more.

The high school gym was decorated in pale blue paper and silver and white snowflakes. A punch bowl and snack table had been set up, and Edith placed her cupcakes in an empty serving platter. A large stand-up of a snowman complete with a top hat and a carrot nose had been set up near the door so students could take photos with him. Students were setting up a table with paper candy-cane corsages and boutonnieres, too.

And then the students began to stream into the gym, as the DJ set up his equipment and began playing songs Edith and James didn't recognize. Edith couldn't help smiling when she heard some of the students admiring her cupcakes, which looked like little mugs of hot chocolate topped in marshmallows. The good thing about being chaperone at a Mapleton High event meant just their presence alone was likely to keep anything from happening, and at the last dance they had even been able to sneak a dance together, once a slow enough song had begun playing.

Then Ned came in with a large group of friends Edith recognized, boys he knew from the football and baseball and basketball teams or just from school, girls who were in his classes; they were all so different. Ned befriended everyone who needed a friend, and it was part of what made Edith and James so proud of him.

Then Ned glanced back, and Edith saw that Nancy was walking a half-step behind him. She wore a long pure-white gown embroidered in silver, a wrap over her shoulders and her hair up, and she looked a little self-conscious, but her cheeks were pink and she couldn't stop smiling. She also spent a lot of time gazing at Ned. Two girls formed her entourage, a tall brunette wearing a long, well-tailored red dress, and a short blonde wearing a shimmering pale-blue gown. The blonde glanced around the room, excited and seemingly confident, and Edith guessed she must be Bess, and the other girl George.

Then Ned glanced over at his parents, and smiled, gesturing for Nancy and her friends to follow him. "Mom, Dad, you've met Nancy," he said, and she smiled and nodded, looking at both of them. "These are her friends Bess and George."

All three girls were polite and well-behaved, Edith was glad to see. But she was most interested in how Nancy behaved, and how Ned behaved around her, even though both of them had to know that his parents would be keeping an eye on them.

While Ned did dance with three other girls, he was never far from Nancy. He didn't exclude Nancy's friends, and often boys and girls just seemed to dance _near_ instead of with each other, but during almost every slow dance, Nancy turned her blue eyes toward Ned and he came to her, asking her every time if he could have a dance before he took her in his arms. A few times they danced the formal way James had shown Ned before he had gone to his first dance—with his palm at the small of her back and his other hand clasping hers, and her hand on his shoulder. Edith noted with interest that Nancy fell into the stance easily, but then Jim had told her that Nancy's father was the affluent, well-respected defense attorney they sometimes read about in the newspaper, and Nancy had doubtless attended several dances. Ned was nearly a head taller than Nancy, even in her heels, and Edith was struck again by how very young she looked.

The rest of the time, though, Nancy linked her hands behind Ned's neck and he linked his at the small of her back, and they swayed together the way most of the other students danced, gazing into each other's eyes. Sometimes she would say something or he would, and the other would smile or chuckle. Edith didn't know what it was, maybe something about the spinning disco ball in the middle of the gym, but sometimes it seemed that Ned's skin was almost glowing faintly. Edith decided it had to be the reflection from Nancy's white dress.

"Now," Jim murmured, a peanut butter cookie in his hand, "don't let the fact that she's dressed in white start giving you ideas."

" _Moi_?" Edith smiled. "Is that cookie for me, maybe?"

"Maybe," Jim smiled too. "If you'll save me a dance."

"I don't have to save anything; they're all yours," she told him, looking up into his dark eyes. "Oh, Jim..."

He shook his head. "They're so young, and he has a good head on his shoulders," he told her as he led her out onto the dance floor. "We want him to be happy. Sometimes part of finding out what makes us happy is figuring out what doesn't."

Edith's heart skipped a beat when she looked over and saw them gazing into each other's eyes, though. "Well, I think he's found the former," she told him.

"I hope so." He leaned down and brushed his lips against her cheek. "I don't mind if he stays our little boy for a while longer, though."

At that, Edith had to smile. "Me either," she agreed, resting her head on his shoulder as they swayed together.


	5. Chapter 5

Nancy was in bed, but she wasn't asleep. Her arm was wrapped around her teddy bear, and her gaze was fixed on the canopy above her head.

Without looking, she knew it was Christmas Eve now, that midnight had come and gone. She could feel it like a subtle difference in the air, a hint of promise and warmth and hope, faint but unmistakable as the pine and cinnamon and sugar permeating the lower floor of her house. The tree was decorated, the front porch strung with glowing white lights, the living room decked in holly and burgundy ribbon.

And Nancy had dreamed of her mother.

It wasn't so strange. Her father had told her the stories of the Christmases her parents had spent together, of how much her mother had loved all the traditions and rituals of the holiday. Nancy wished she could remember her mother celebrating with them; while she had pictures, she had been so young that she remembered the pictures more vividly than anything concrete or tangible. But she had memorized her mother's face, and every year on her birthday, she scrutinized her reflection, comparing it with the photos of her mother when she was the same age.

Nancy loved her father with her whole heart, but she felt like there was a part of herself that was a mystery. She knew her mother through those parts of herself, through the way she would wrinkle her nose, her handwriting, the color of her hair—what she hadn't inherited from her father. Sometimes she felt closer to her mother than other times. Now was one of those times, with a soft voice still echoing in her ear.

She had no memory of her mother's voice, she had only heard it and her laughter in some short, grainy home videos, but that voice was what she had heard.

_I love you. He will keep you safe, baby._

She had no doubt who "he" referred to, either.

_Ned._

Still clutching her much-loved teddy bear, Nancy turned onto her side, gazing at the window. Just the thought of his name filled her with warmth; the sight of him made her heart rise in almost painful joy.

She had no idea how he felt about her, and she was terrified to ask. Bess had encouraged her to press him, to ask if he wanted to go steady, to ask him how he felt about her. She also assured Nancy that there was no way Ned didn't like her. According to Bess, Ned was always gazing at her. Nancy hadn't noticed it, mostly because she tried _not_ to gaze at Ned. Bess had also pointed out that Ned was always protective, almost overprotective, of her, but Nancy had known that already.

He was also funny and sweet and smart, and even though he had invited her to the dance at his school as a member of a group of people attending, he had shared almost every dance with her. Ned and his parents had also attended the Christmas ball at the River Heights Country Club, and Nancy and her father had been there too, and Ned had somehow looked even more handsome than he had before the winter dance at his school. It had been natural to dance with him; only a few teenagers were in attendance, and other than Nancy and Ned, they had looked bored and miserable. Nancy had always liked going to the Christmas ball, and when she wasn't dancing with Ned, she danced with her father. Once Mr. Nickerson had asked her to dance, and she had been so nervous about stepping on his toes or catching her heel on the hem of her sweeping forest-green gown. It was the most grown-up dress she owned; it had a portrait neckline and when she saw her reflection, she thought she looked very sophisticated.

Her father had even commented on it when she had come downstairs with her wrap and her small purse, her hair up in a twist, wearing her mother's pearl earrings and necklace. "My little girl," he had said with a smile. "You're becoming such a beautiful young woman, Nancy."

The dance had been the previous weekend. The past week had been quiet; they were both on school break, and Nancy hadn't been told about any strange lights, creaking floors, disappearances, or anything else that would give her a plausible excuse to call Ned. Ned was always eager to accompany her when she was investigating something, and Nancy was happy to have him with her. She found it harder to ask him to do something with her that was just for _them_. When Ned asked if she wanted to go to the movies with him, and sometimes some other friends, she was happy to go, and he always insisted on paying for her ticket, the meal before or the ice cream after.

But she didn't know if it was because he considered her a friend, or if he felt more serious about her. She couldn't bring herself to ask. She was too afraid of what his answer could be.

Nancy had never seriously dated anyone else. She didn't know how it was supposed to be; she didn't know the words for what she felt for him, only the sensations. The warmth and happiness, and how she somehow felt both safe and nervous around him, both comfortable and anxious. A message or a phone call from him could turn the entire day around; her mood darkened when she hadn't heard from him in a while.

She loved Bess and George; they were her best friends in the world. She loved her father, and she loved Hannah. She loved her mother. But when she thought about Ned, what she felt for him wasn't like that. It was terrifying and intense and it felt like _so much_ , too much.

But she didn't want to stop seeing him. She loved dancing with him and talking to him and laughing with him. She trusted him. And those few times his lips had brushed against her cheek, Nancy had wondered what he would do if she turned her face and brushed her lips against his. But her heart, so strong when she was in a scary situation during an investigation, failed her. She had no problem spending all her strength and determination when going after a suspect, but on this, for herself? She didn't know what to do.

Nancy sighed, turning onto her other side and burying her face against the bear's fur. What would be so bad, about asking him how he felt about her? Would she bleed like she had been stabbed if he said that he considered her a very good friend and nothing more? Because he was an amazing friend, and having him in her life that way would be great.

But was that all she wanted?

She closed her eyes with another sigh. For as long as she didn't say anything and didn't ask, she wouldn't know. She liked the way they were now. She liked occasionally holding his hand, and the smiles he directed at her made her stomach flip.

_It's not important,_ she thought. _It's not. I'll follow his lead. And I'd be happy to be his friend. I am happy to be his friend._

But she still didn't feel settled, and it took her a while to get back to sleep.

In the morning Nancy sat down at the table for breakfast, still a little bleary-eyed and sleepy. Hannah was already dressed in a red sweater and black pants, and she smiled as she brought Nancy a glass of juice. "Merry Christmas Eve, Nancy."

"Merry Christmas Eve," Nancy said with a small smile. "Oh, I could have gotten the juice..."

"It's all right, honey. Cranberry cinnamon rolls for breakfast."

Nancy couldn't help grinning at that. Hannah had perfected the recipe the year before, and the rolls were decadent, especially hot out of the oven and glazed with melting cream cheese icing. "That must be what smells so nice."

Hannah grinned too. "By the way, I finished Ned's Christmas gift last night. I was thinking you might want to invite him over for lunch so I could give it to him?"

Nancy felt a flush rise in her cheeks, but she couldn't deny the appeal. She hadn't thought she would be able to see Ned again until after the holiday. "I don't know. He might be busy with his family," she said.

"Couldn't hurt to ask."

During breakfast, Nancy's father asked if Hannah needed anything else for the next day's feast, and Nancy listened to their conversation with only half her attention. As soon as she had swallowed the last bite of her breakfast, she pushed her chair back. Hannah and her father both glanced up at her.

"I, um, have to make a phone call," Nancy said, and she knew she was blushing again.

Once Nancy explained why she was calling and he checked with his mother, Ned said he would be happy to come over, but he had to leave her house by 2:30 at the latest, since they were going to his grandparents' house for dinner. Nancy went up to her room to change before Ned's arrival, and she brushed her reddish-gold hair until it gleamed. She put on a chunky white sweater and jeans, and when she heard a car pull up outside, her heart rose in her throat. She put on a pair of shoes as fast as she could, then raced down the stairs. She couldn't resist the urge to open the door and see if Ned had arrived.

The sky was the strange dirty white that meant even more snow; already the lawn was spread with a soft carpet of huge fluffy flakes. In the dimness, the lights twined along the porch railing shone like golden stars. And then she saw his car, saw him wrapped in his heavy winter coat and bundled up against the chill, and the warmth and happiness she felt were undeniable. She didn't care what it meant; she was just delighted to see him.

She opened the screen door and Ned stamped his boots on the front mat, then stepped inside; his dark eyes were twinkling above the muffler wound around his neck and up to just beneath his nose. "Merry Christmas Eve, Nancy," he said as he began to unwind it, and he smiled at her.

"Merry Christmas Eve," she replied with a grin. "Were the roads very bad?"

"Not too bad. Rough in a few places."

His dark eyes were intense and gazing straight into hers when she remembered with a start. "Oh! May I take your coat?"

"The poor boy must be freezing," Hannah added as she came in. "It's so nice to see you, Ned. Let me bring you some hot apple cider."

Nancy put Ned's coat away, and when she looked back, Ned had walked over to the photo wall in the living room. She felt a little pang when she realized he was looking at a photograph of her mother and father; her mother was laughing and her father had his arms wrapped around her, and he was gazing into her eyes with a smile on his face. They looked deeply in love.

"Your mother," Ned said softly, and then glanced over at Nancy. "She's beautiful."

"Thanks," Nancy said. She felt shy, and almost bittersweet; she remembered her dream with a little start, the echo of her mother's voice. "I miss her. Especially around this time of year."

Ned reached for her hand and gently squeezed it. "But you love her and she knows that," he murmured. "It's Christmas."

She could sense that he wanted to say more, but he just shook his head, and she gave him a little smile. "I do love her," she said, and then she had to stop talking for a minute; she knew her voice would shake otherwise. She swallowed and tried to blink away the sudden shimmering in her eyes. "I'm sorry."

He was still gazing at her. "Don't be sad," he murmured, and reached up to gently stroke her cheek. "It's all right. She loves you."

Nancy had just found her voice again—it was so hard, when she was looking into his eyes—when Hannah came back into the room with a mug of warm cider for Ned. She was pleased when Ned dropped his hand from her cheek, but not quickly; he didn't seem to be ashamed or trying to hide what he had been doing. He sat down beside her on the couch and they listened to Hannah as she worked on preparing the holiday meal, and soon her father came in and joined them too.

Hannah's gift to Ned was a hand-crocheted scarf, which Ned accepted with a wide grin. He gave Hannah a hug that left Nancy feeling a strange twist of jealousy in her stomach. She hadn't yet found a gift that she felt was right for Ned, and it was so hard; she didn't want to give him anything too serious, too formal, too lighthearted, too unusual or too ordinary. She wanted it to be perfect. But she also didn't know if he was expecting a gift from her, or even if he wanted one. He hadn't given her one.

Once he had told Hannah and her father goodbye, Nancy went out onto the porch with him. The house was full of the wonderful smells of Hannah's cooking and baking; she was busy assembling casseroles and desserts, and for Christmas Eve dinner, Nancy and her father were giving Hannah a break, grilling hamburgers and making French fries. Hannah had promised to save Ned a slice of the Italian cream cake she had baking in the oven, as long as he promised to come by the day after Christmas; she couldn't guarantee it would last any longer than that.

"Thanks for coming," Nancy told him. "I... well, I... I want to give you a gift too, but I just haven't found the right one yet."

Ned smiled at her. "Truly, you don't need to give me anything," he told her. "Spending time with you is the only gift I need. I... I've missed you."

Nancy's heart skipped a beat. "I've missed you, too," she said. She knew it was the perfect time to ask, but when she tried to form the words, she froze. She would ask him later. After Christmas. She just wanted to hold onto this warm glow for a little while longer.

He was holding her hand, but he released it, glancing down. Her smile faded, but then Ned reached into his pocket. He pulled out a small, flat package wrapped in a scrap of dark-red paper. "I saw it and it made me think of you," he told her, and handed it to her. "It's not very much. I—I hope you like it."

"Oh. Well, now I feel even worse," she admitted.

Ned shook his head immediately. "No, no. Please don't. I just wanted you to have it. Please don't feel bad."

She smiled again, struggling a little as she worked to open the wrapping with gloved fingers, but she succeeded and saw a necklace in the cup of her palm, a delicate gold chain with a gold star pendant hanging from it.

"Oh... oh, Ned, it's beautiful," she said. "It's very nice. Thank you."

He smiled. "I'm glad you like it. Usually I'm able to find nice presents for all my friends and family pretty quickly, but it took a while for me to find the right thing for you."

She smiled up at him. "Then I suppose we're even," she told him. "Or we will be, once I find the right gift for you. It... it's really sweet and thoughtful. Thank you."

He took her hand again. "Merry Christmas, Nancy," he said. "Stay safe. Let me know if Hannah really does save me any of that cream cake."

Nancy grinned. "I'll make sure she does," she told him. "And the day after tomorrow? You can come over and tell me what you got for Christmas and we can watch movies or something, if the roads aren't so bad."

He nodded. "And Bess and George?"

"Um... well, I might invite them. If you want."

"I'll be happy whatever you decide," he told her, and when he leaned down to kiss her cheek, it was so quick that she couldn't even think about trying to tilt her head—but the glowing smile he gave her afterward took her breath away. "I'll see you soon."

Nancy nodded. "Merry Christmas, Ned."

The present she eventually gave him was one that she knew he would appreciate, even if he had told her he didn't want anything. She and Hannah worked together and made him a batch of chocolate crinkle cookies and put them in a red and gold tin. She had never seen Ned turn down dessert, and though he often shared it with other people, it still made him happy.

Then Valentine's Day came, and Ned had a basketball game that night, so Nancy was both disappointed and relieved. If Ned had asked someone else out that night, she would have been jealous; if he had asked her out, she would have been anxious about what it meant, whether he was just being her friend. Now the question had been neatly sidestepped.

Still, after school, Nancy rushed home with a bag of Hershey's Kisses so she and Hannah could make peanut butter blossom cookies for her to give Ned after the game. The living room was warm and welcoming, and as soon as she stepped inside, she began to unfasten her coat. "Hannah, I'm home!"

"Be right there!" Hannah called back.

Nancy had just let her backpack drop to the floor when she saw a vase atop the table beside the door, where her father often left his keys and where Hannah often left the mail for them. The tall fluted vase held four roses, two white and two pink.

Nancy was still regarding it with wide eyes when Hannah came into the living room, wiping her hands. "That came for you this morning, after you'd left for school," Hannah told her with a smile. "I think I know who they might be from."

The card attached bore a handwritten note. _Happy Valentine's Day, Nancy. -Ned_

Nancy pressed her lips together. The roses weren't red, but he had thought to send her roses, and she caught herself wondering whether he had sent any other girls roses. She had seen him with other girls, and she had long been impressed by his compassion and genuine care for other people. And she could easily imagine that Ned would send bouquets on Valentine's Day to girls who otherwise might not receive anything. Ned's mother had told her a few weeks earlier about how he liked to do that.

_Does it matter?_ she asked herself. _If he sent a thousand bouquets today, or just this one? He thought of me._

No matter how she tried to fight it, though, she couldn't ignore her jealousy or what it meant. She wanted to stay his friend, but she wanted more than that.

_Then ask. Maybe he just doesn't know. Maybe he's afraid, too._

Nancy would have applied many adjectives to Ned: strong, brave, protective, even fearless. She never saw any sign that he was afraid. He was always polite and he never wanted to hurt anyone, but he was honest, and he wasn't afraid.

And if fear wasn't keeping him from telling her how he felt, then she was afraid he didn't feel it.

But she was afraid she did, regardless of how he felt. She thought she was falling in love with him, a little more every time she saw him, with every football or basketball or baseball game she attended, every brush of his fingers against hers, every smile, every time he looked into her eyes. She was in agony about it, as her birthday approached. Sometimes she was convinced that she was special to him; sometimes she was just as convinced that he couldn't feel the same way about her, if he could just be friends with her. And then she considered that maybe he was going through the same roller-coaster she was.

Two weeks before her birthday, when the weather was actually becoming warm and the snow had finally melted, she and Ned were in the dense woods on the other side of Mapleton. The day before, Nancy, Bess, and George had been on the way back from the game and had seen a bobbing flashlight beam in the darkness. Nancy had mentioned it to her father, and he had mentioned that a few homes in the area had been robbed. They had about an hour of daylight left.

The anxiety and desperation Nancy felt about confronting Ned, about asking him whether he had feelings for her, evaporated when she was around him. She wore the necklace he had given her every day, and he always smiled when he saw it. When she was around, Ned was polite to other people, but he was always near her, talking to her, beside her. She had wanted to decide for herself whether what Bess had witnessed was true, and it seemed to be.

And then they were alone together and it didn't matter, because she was with him. She decided that she would casually bring up prom when they were on the way back to River Heights, and she would see what he said. Maybe he was planning on going to Mapleton's prom with a group of people, as he had the winter dance. But maybe he wasn't.

"So what's the plan?" Ned asked, his hand holding hers as she led the way around a fallen tree. "What are we looking for?"

Nancy shrugged. "Maybe an abandoned house, signs of a getaway vehicle parked somewhere nearby—really deep tread impressions would be good." She gestured at the still-muddy ground, carpeted by long-dead leaves and brittle gray twigs.

"Because deep impressions would mean a heavy vehicle."

She glanced up at him with a smile and nodded. "Exactly. And once we find some evidence..."

"We go to the police?"

"Maybe."

Ned chuckled. "Too easy, huh."

"Maybe."

Bess hadn't had a relationship with the same guy for more than three weeks; she had been one of Nancy's best friends for ten years. Ned had been Nancy's friend for almost five months. Her heart ached at the thought of ruining what they had with a formal relationship, not when what they had was so easy and made her so happy. Her father had told her a few times, half-jokingly, that he didn't want her dating until she was sixteen. He had met Ned, and Nancy's reassurance that she and Ned were friends and he was helping her with her investigations or going to the movies with her had made her father happy.

The other guys at Nancy's school, compared to Ned, were immature; they never took anything seriously, and they didn't have a tenth of his self-confidence. She couldn't imagine dating anyone else after being friends with Ned. In all honesty, she couldn't imagine dating anyone _other_ than Ned.

"Hmm. I think I see something," Ned said, and his voice was quiet. Nancy's heart skipped a beat as she followed his gaze to a stand of tall slender trees—and a gravel path to the house just beyond them. Her eyes widened when she saw a box truck parked next to the house. The truck bore a logo for a cleaning company.

"Ned! This is probably it," she whispered, squeezing his hand. "I can't believe it!"

"And I can already guess that you won't want to wait back here while I go check it out."

She shook her head. "Not on your life!"

Ned's lips quirked up in a brief smile. "All right. Just be careful, okay?"

She squeezed his hand again. "Always."

She did let him walk in first, her usual minor concession, but the house was eerily still and quiet; it didn't have that musty closed-off smell that some abandoned places did. The only new item in the house was a blue and white cooler, half-full of melted ice and packed with bottled water. They found two navy jumpsuits with matching hats and two pairs of sneakers inside, too.

When they didn't find any of the missing property inside, Ned went to the front door—and then froze. "Shh," he told her, closing it again. "A car's coming."

Nancy's stomach flipped, and she glanced around for something she might use in defense. As fast as she could she raced over to the window and yanked until the cord on the blinds came free in her hand. Ned gestured for her to hide in the front closet, and she obeyed without thinking. He stood in front of her.

Heavy footfalls sounded on the porch, and then came into the house. "Hey, anybody here?" a rough voice called, and Ned reached behind him, making sure Nancy was shielded by his body. "Hello?"

"Check upstairs," another voice muttered.

As soon as the doorknob on the closet rattled, Nancy tensed, her eyes widening. Ned was quick; the door swung open and he rushed the person on the other side, tackling him hard to the stained carpet. The taller, dark-haired man fought back, but Ned wrestled him onto his stomach, and Nancy darted forward to secure his hands behind his back.

"Hey!"

Nancy noticed the gun that the tall man had dropped in the struggle, and had just drawn breath to warn Ned, her throat tight with panic, when a gunshot rang out. The man who had been on his way upstairs was coming toward them, his face twisted in surprise that was slowly darkening to rage.

"Stay down," Ned told her, his tone brooking no argument, as he stood.

"Ned," she cried out, adrenaline making her hands shake as she looked at the gun, then back up at the second man. He had his own gun raised, and even when Ned bolted to the side, still heading toward him, Nancy saw the next bullet strike his arm. "No!"

Ned tackled the second man just as Nancy had found the strength to even touch the gun, but she knew she couldn't use it; she pushed it far away from the bound man, then rushed over to where Ned and the second man were struggling.

"Nancy, _stay back_ ," Ned gasped, and she watched in horror as the other man raised his gun and began to bring it down toward Ned's head. She darted forward and grabbed his forearm, slowing his progress, and Ned squirmed out of the way. In another moment, the two of them had subdued the second man, and bound him, too.

"You're hurt," Nancy said, panting, as she swept her hair out of her eyes.

Ned shook his head. "It was nothing," he said, and when she saw his forearm, she couldn't believe her eyes. The wound looked like a minor scrape, no worse than the drag of a fingernail against his skin.

"I thought—the bullet—" She shook her head. "We have to call the police."

"You better," the tall man sneered. "Trespassers! _And_ assault!"

"You're thieves," Nancy replied. "You were on the way to rob another house!"

"No," the second man said. "We just came by to check on the house for a friend."

"Go see if there's anything in the truck or their car," Ned said. "But be careful."

"That truck is our property!" the first man bellowed. "You stay out of it, or you'll be arrested!"

Nancy smiled. "Be right back," she told Ned.

She found mops and brushes, oversized garbage bags, boxes of latex gloves—and, in the glove compartment at the front of the box truck, a tangled knot of gold jewelry that looked like it had been lifted straight out of a careless woman's jewelry box.

After the police had come to arrest the suspects and take their statements, Nancy and Ned accepted a ride back to Ned's car. "Ned," she said softly, as soon as they were buckled in and he had started his car. "You—what you did today..."

He shook his head, then turned to her. "I wish you hadn't been in danger," he said. "Nancy, if he'd hurt you..."

They were both speechless for a moment, his dark eyes intense as he gazed into hers. Then she was finally able to look away, and Ned cleared his throat. "I'm glad you're okay," he told her.

It was only once they were at her house that she remembered she had wanted to talk about prom, but it didn't seem to matter, not after what he had done. He walked her to the front door and wrapped her in his arms; night was falling, and she closed her eyes, and she _knew_. She had walked up to the cliff, and she had looked down, and now, she was falling and there was no way to stop.

"You're okay," he murmured. "You're safe. Nancy..."

She felt his lips brush the crown of her head before he let her go. "T—tomorrow?" she forced out. "I'll see you after school?"

He nodded, looking down at her, and she was spellbound. She couldn't breathe; she couldn't think. He reached for her hand and clasped it for a moment, and then he let her go, walking back to his car.

It was only once his taillights had vanished in the distance that Nancy walked into her house, in a daze. Hannah came into the living room; her father was sitting in his favorite armchair, reading the evening paper. He smiled when he saw her.

"Nancy? You all right, honey?"

Nancy nodded slowly. Hannah went back into the kitchen, saying she was going to pour Nancy a glass of water, and Nancy suddenly realized her mouth was dry. Then she sat down at the end of the couch close to her father and looked over at him.

"Dad?"

"Hmm? Are you sure you're okay?"

She nodded again, dazed. "When you... when you met Mom... how did you know?"

"How did I know what, sweetheart?"

She turned her wondering eyes to his. "How did you know you were in love?"

\--

Ned's father and mother glanced at each other. "Well," his father said, "it's a little hard to explain. Do you feel happy when you look at her?"

"Yes," Ned said. "But I'm happy when I see you or my friends, too."

"And it makes you happy to spend time with her," his mother added.

"But it's more than that," his father said. "Do you want her to be happy?"

"More than anything," Ned said. "Always."

"And you want her to be happy _with_ you? You—well, do you feel jealous when you see her with other people?" his father asked.

"Why... of course not. Not if she's happy."

"Would it hurt you to stay away from her?" his mother asked.

Ned nodded. "Oh, yes."

"Well, part of love is wanting to be with a person a lot—maybe not all the time, but a lot of the time. Wanting to kiss her, to hold her, to be with her. Wanting to be the person she loves in return." His father's hands were clasped as he looked at Ned.

Ned shook his head. "I want to be with her, but if she loves me... it doesn't matter if she loves me."

His mother's eyebrows went up, and she and his father glanced at each other. "What do you mean?" she asked slowly.

"It's her choice." He sighed, then rose and began to pace. He was anxious. "What else?"

"Ned, we... well, we've talked about sex. For a lot of people—maybe not everyone, but a lot of people—being in love with someone means being attracted to the other person that way. Wanting to be intimate. You and Nancy have been seeing each other for a while, now. Have you... other than holding hands, have you kissed? Done other things?"

Ned sighed. "I kiss her on the cheek."

"But you want to do more?" his father asked.

Ned shrugged.

"Honey, I don't understand," his mother said. "Can you help me?"

"I don't," he murmured. "I can't—I can't love the way you do. I can't."

"So you love her as a friend," his father said. "That's okay, Ned."

Ned shook his head. "I belong to her," he said, and then rubbed his hands against his face. "I'm hers. For her entire life, I'm hers. I'm..." He swallowed hard. "I'm here to protect her," he said quietly.

His parents exchanged a glance. "Even if she fell in love with someone else, wanted to be with someone else?"

He nodded, almost relieved at the question. "Always."

"But you said that you wanted her to be happy," his mother said. "If she told you that she loved you and wanted to be with you, to date you? Would you?"

Ned's heart sank. It had been so hard, over the months he had been seeing her, to maintain the line. He was her friend, but he was more than her friend; he wasn't dating her, though, not officially. When she gazed at him the way she had on her father's porch, he felt something he was afraid to name. In those moments, he saw what he felt for her reflected in her eyes, too.

She was happy to be with him, but she might want more.

"If she wants me to love her, then I—" _Can,_ he almost said. "Will," he murmured.

"And if you met someone else, who you—"

Ned shook his head. "No," he said, his voice low and firm. "There is no one else. I'm hers."

"And she might want to be yours," his mother said gently. Then she smiled. "The way you talk about it, about _her_ , it's almost like courtly love."

"What's that?"

"A knight who loved a lady of the court would devote himself to her, worship her, would write her poetry and almost faint if his lady met his gaze; a handkerchief dropped from her hand was worth a kingdom. But she was so far above him, in his mind, that he didn't _want_ a physical relationship." Her smile faded. "She was almost like—just a concept, an idea, to him. He would do anything she asked of him, would happily fight for her, but that was all."

"Wow," James commented.

"What? Senior English. I did a report," Ned's mother said, and smiled.

"It would be better, that way," Ned said. "If courtly love meant being around to protect her and keep her safe, yes. That kind of love."

"But love, Ned... it's not something you turn off and on like that," his father said. "We aren't knights in old times. And romantic love—it's like a bolt out of nowhere, straight to your heart, or sometimes you're with a friend you care for deeply, and then something changes, _shifts_ , and you can't imagine yourself without that person. You want to be with that person all the time, to learn everything about her, or him. Everything is better when that person is around. Seeing her flirt or laugh with another guy makes you jealous or upset. And part of romantic love, usually, is wanting intimacy. Maybe not having sex, at least not at first, but wanting to kiss her and hold her."

"If she wants that."

"If she wants that," his mother agreed, nodding. "Oh, Ned... are you afraid to let yourself feel that way about her unless she feels the same way?"

It was the easiest answer, even if it wasn't quite true, so Ned nodded. His parents seemed to be relieved, and seemed to understand, and in return Ned felt relieved.

"Well, Ned... talk to her," his father advised. "I've seen the way she looks at you, and I truly don't feel you have anything to worry about."

But he did, Ned had realized, when he was in his bed that night. For as long as he was around her, if he was careful, he would be safe. He was devoted to her, and he was meant to protect her. He knew that. And he could protect her with all his strength.

He also knew what Angie had meant, though. If he fell in love with Nancy, that love would give her part of what Angie had called his "light," part of the force inside him that kept him from harm. It would protect her, but she wouldn't be just like he was, imbued with unbelievable luck and quick to heal and avoid pain when he could. Instead, to a degree, they would both be vulnerable.

And he would no longer be able to protect her with all his strength. And that was all he wanted, to keep her safe and whole.

He wasn't supposed to fall in love with her. He had never meant to fall in love with her.

But he was afraid he had already begun.


End file.
